


Blessed Hands Will Break Me

by ArvenaPeredhel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amputation, Blood and Gore, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Gen, Interrupted Handjob, Kissing, LaCE compliant, M/M, Russingon, Secret Marriage, genfic more or less despite the M/M, he gets his hand cut off that's what we're all here for, some implied sex happens where Maitimo doesn’t know what’s real
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2020-08-23 14:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 116,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20244364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: Upon arriving in Beleriand, Findekáno Astaldo Nolofinwion discovers what exactly has happened to his husband, and seeks to mend the rift between their Houses. Canon-compliant, LACE-compliant, gapfiller/gen/romance-ish, all Russingon. A long fic, in progress and going all the way to the Mereth Aderthad.





	1. The Board is Set

**Author's Note:**

> Blessed hands will tear me off and break me at the wrist  
Drag me back to solid ground, slay the fate I kiss.

Findekáno Astaldo Nolofinwion was growing frustrated. The hunting had been bad, but the hunting was more or less always bad compared to what he’d known in Valannor. _ By now, _ he thought wearily as he slipped from shadow to shadow, _ I should at least have a rabbit to show for my hours of walking, and not empty snare after empty snare. I shall have to return home empty-handed if I am not very successful in the next hour or so, else I shall be caught outside after dark, and I do not trust the land enough to take that chance. _He crept forward carefully - he’d planted a snare just ahead, and with good fortune it would perhaps have caught him a rabbit.

There was a sudden noise in the trees, and he tensed, his hand going to his hunting knife. _ That is no animal. _ There were few orcs in these woods, if any, with two camps of wary Noldor using them for hunting grounds, but it was safest to be cautious. _ And besides, _ Findekáno thought with a sudden burst of black humor, _ it is probably the other Noldor who are more dangerous. _ He moved closer to the source of the sound, knife sliding from its leather sheath, and suddenly the branches parted and he was staring into the face of - 

“Ambarussa?” he gasped, staring at his cousin in disbelief.

“Findekáno!” the other Noldo said, starting back in shock. “I - I wasn’t sure…”

“It’s all right,” Findekáno replied, sheathing his knife instinctively and then wondering if he should have thought better of it. “I am… well, I cannot say _ glad to see you, _ but it is good to know you are alive, I suppose. And better to know you are not an orc.”

“The same to you,” Ambarussa said warily. “And congratulations. On your marriage.”

_ Marriage? _ Findekáno thought, terror rising to choke him as he cursed himself for his foolishness. _ I should not have met his eyes, I should have avoided them just as I have my own family - _

\- and then he realized that his cousin had no way of knowing who, exactly, he was married _ to_, without true openness of thought between them. He blinked twice but did not answer. They stood in uncomfortable silence, neither one willing to address the problem of Losgar but neither knowing what else to say. Finally Findekáno cleared his throat and spoke again.

“How is your family?” 

Ambarussa looked at him in disbelief, and he shrugged. It was a hollow question, but he could not think of another topic of conversation to fill the awkward silence. 

His cousin shrugged back. “Well enough, I suppose,” he said. “All things considered. Tyelko adores the woods, and Curvo is happy at his forge as he ever was.”

_ Well, how lovely for them, _Findekáno thought bitterly, but aloud he merely said “And Fëanáro?” This was a loaded question, and he knew it, but better sooner than later.

Ambarussa paled. “You… you do not know?”

Findekáno froze, a spike of cold anxiety blooming up from his gut. “Know what?”

His cousin took a step back, eyes growing wider and even more wary. “My father is dead.”

“What?” he asked. “I… but… but he… _ dead_?”

“Fallen in battle. His _ fëa _ consumed his _ hröa _ as it departed, leaving ash behind.”

“Eru,” he swore again. “No.”

“And my brother Ambarto burned with the ships at Losgar.”

Findekáno started back, gasping. _ Fëanáro, dead? Ambarto burned? What has _ happened _ to my family? _

Ambarussa awkwardly reached out and touched his shoulder in support. "For what it's worth," he said, "I'm sorry. About the ships." 

Findekáno glared at him, shock evaporating and sudden anger rolling off of him like heat from a forge. "Then why did you burn them?" he demanded. Now that he had reason to be hostile, he found it was all too easy. 

"Father didn't trust Nolofinwë, and - !" 

"Didn't _ trust _ him?” Findekáno cried, indignant and gaping. “We _ left _ with you!”

“I - !”

“We heard the Doom of Námo just as you did!" 

"That does not mean - !"

"_I killed people for you!_ We all did, all my siblings! Was that not proof of our loyalty?!"

"He _ said _ you'd hinder us in our goal!" Ambarussa snapped. "And maybe he was right."

"Well maybe he was,” Findekáno retorted venomously, “but right or wrong, _ he shouldn't have done it_!" 

"Maitimo agreed with you," the other _ nér _ muttered with equal venom.

"I know," Findekáno answered before he could help himself, and then winced. 

"You know?" 

"I… heard of it." 

Ambarussa frowned, but continued. "When the order was given, he argued with our father, and tried to stop him, and I don't know if he actually _did_ take part in the burning or not. But all he did was make Atya more angry, and he was told if he resisted he would be held as a traitor." 

"And did anyone else speak out alongside him?" 

Ambarussa was silent, and Findekáno felt his anger spark into blazing rage. "No one?" he demanded. "Not even you, or Macalaurë?" 

"We - !" 

"We had to cross the Valar-damned _ Helcaraxë _ because of what you did!" he shouted. "_On foot, in the dark_!”

“... what?” 

“Turukáno's wife Elenwë is dead, _my brother Arakáno is dead_ \- as are countless others!"

His cousin's mouth fell open, utter horror supplanting any other emotion. "I... you... but he said - oh, _ Eru_.” 

"What did you _ think _ would happen?" Findekáno asked bitterly. "We'd be allowed back into Valannor like no blood had been shed by our host?" 

"I don't know! I - we didn't think - !" 

"_Obviously _ not."

Furious silence fell after that, soon bleeding out into dull animosity. Ambarussa sighed, his whole body seeming to slump, and then he spoke again softly. 

"Please... please tell Nolofinwë that we're uninterested in war. I mean, Curvo is proud and regrets nothing, and Tyelko couldn't care less, and nobody really likes how Macalaurë is running things except me and most of our people., but he's really trying, and - !" 

"Wait, _ Macalaurë _ rules?" Findekáno asked. "What about Rus - Maitimo?" He was the only one his husband had ever really permitted to use his _ epessë _, and often times those who didn't use it forgot who he meant when he spoke it aloud. But if Ambarussa had paled at his father's name, he went absolutely ashen at the mention of Maitimo. He flinched, head bowing, and swallowed hard, and took several deep breaths in succession before at last he spoke. 

"... you haven't had any news," he said. There was a tremble in his voice "I mean, obviously not - had you known about Father, about Pityo, you wouldn't have asked - but you… no one... Valar above." 

"What," the dark-haired prince said, nausea creeping up from his stomach.

Ambarussa bit his lip, tears welling in his eyes again. "Dead," he said, almost tripping over the word. He was focused on a spot on the ground, unwilling to look up and maybe meet his cousin's eyes as he spoke. 

"No," Findekáno said, his head reeling. "No." Not Russandol. Pityo's death seemed tragic, and frankly though he didn't _ like _ his uncle he at least saw it as a loss for his cousins' sakes. But Russandol? Russandol, who knew more of him than anyone, Russandol who had given him so much, Russandol who... Valar, who had shared his bed, and taken him to husband in the sight of the Allfather? "No," he said a third time, more resolved than shocked. "He... he can't be dead."

"I'm - I'm sorry," Ambarussa said. "I know you were close." 

Findekáno laughed mirthlessly - _ if only you knew_, he thought - and stood up, his eyes dark and angry. 

"How?" he asked. "Was it at Losgar, did he die trying to save Pityafinwë? Or was it alongside his father? Did he, too, burn to ash?" 

"Neither," Ambarussa answered. "He... after our father's death, Nelyo began efforts to avenge him." His voice was methodical, like a scholar reciting ancient histories. "It culminated in a false treaty with Moringoþo himself." 

"No!" Findekáno cried for what felt like the hundredth time. "Surely not!"

"He thought to win by deception and espionage rather than military might. But it was a trap, and - !" 

"Of _ course _ it was a trap! How could you think to lie to the father of lies?" 

"What else could we do?" Ambarussa demanded. "Storm Angamando? Beg for succor from the Valar, after all we've done?" 

"You might have known not to try and trick him! Now Russandol is dead and buried because of it!" Ambarussa fell silent again, shifting where he sat and still staring at the ground. 

"Not exactly," he muttered. 

"_What_." Findekáno was livid now, and shaking. "What. Do. You. _ Mean_." Telvo flinched, looking down. His breathing grew ragged. His cousin's rage was tangible, and he didn't dare speak again until Findekáno almost growled at him. 

"I ought to kill you for what you did at Losgar," he intoned, hand trembling as it gripped the hilt of his sword. "I'll spare your life for the sake of peace, but you will regret it if you fail to answer me. What. Happened. To. Russandol." 

Ambarussa turned away, both to avoid Findekáno's glare and to hide his own tears. 

"Captured," he whispered, his voice taut with his own anger. "Captured, and we can only pray that he is truly dead."

Findekáno felt as though he had been pierced through the chest by a particularly large crossbow bolt. _ Dead _ was one thing, _ dead _was awful but he could eventually heal from it, perhaps. And perhaps they would see one another again, if Námo saw fit to restore a Kinslayer and an apostate to life.

But _ captured_?

_ Captured _ was something else entirely.

Once his head had stopped spinning and the raw edges of the hole in his chest had turned dull, he lifted his head up and looked at Ambarussa.

“When… when was the last time Macalaurë attempted to free him?”

Ambarussa recoiled as if he’d been slapped, the tears in his eyes spilling down his face. He met Findekáno’s gaze angrily.

“_That _ is the true disgrace,” he spat. “I do not think my brother cares if Nelyo lives or dies. He refuses to free him, to even attempt it! He says it is better if we assume he has died.”

Findekáno’s mouth fell open in shock. “_What?_”

Telvo was shaking, his face white with fury. “And when I tried, when I set out to at least discover if we _ could _ storm Angamando? He had me confined to my room! He said he would not risk our people’s lives for one man, even if he was our brother!”

“Monster.” Findekáno growled. “It is _ him _ I ought to kill." He was shivering from anger. "I, too, lost a brother - if I could bring him _back?_ I would, in half a heartbeat! How can he be so cruel?"

“It is all the more awful because he - he is _ trying, _ Finno. To be a good king, and to do what Atya - well, to lead our people as he would wish them to be led.”

“And he is doing a fine job of it, by my reckoning!” Findekáno answered with a dark laugh. “Abandoning his own brother to torment and death? He sounds _ exactly _ like Fëanáro.”

“That is enough!” his cousin cried. “You should not insult him, you do not know how it has been!”

“I do not _ care _ how it has been!” he cried in response. “And weren’t you furious with him yourself?”

“He is my brother! I cannot let you demean him, no matter what I may think!”

Findekáno groaned. “Damn your family loyalty in its selectiveness! _ I_, for one, never wish to speak to Macalaurë again. If he dies? I shall not mourn him! It is shameful, Ambarussa! There is no forgiving it! Carry _ that _ message to your ‘king’, and I shall carry what _ you _ say to mine.” 

Almost as punctuation for his statement, he turned on his heel and walked away, fury evident in every step. Ambarussa stared after him, and then sank to his knees, weeping silently.

* * *

Captured.

The word thrummed through his whole body again and again like a steady drumbeat. _ Russandol captured. Russandol, my _ love _ , my _ wedded husband _ , is a prisoner of Angamando and no-one has sought even to see if he might be freed. _ His anger grew with every step he took until his vision had nearly gone red with wrath. He reached his own camp sooner than expected; by the time he reached the sentries he was shaking with rage. 

“Good fortune on your hunt, milord?” one of them asked. Findekáno shook his head, biting down hard on his tongue to keep from screaming. They exchanged a look as he passed them - he had left in fine spirits - but he was oblivious. His blood was almost singing of death, and he paid no mind to the new-made sunset or the greetings of his people as he strode up to the doors of the hall that was his father’s residence. There were no guards for now - he guessed dimly that they were probably helping somewhere in the camp - and so he was free to enter unobserved and make his way down the hall.

He stormed into his room, the door slamming hard against the wall behind him. He knew the noise would likely echo through the house; he could not bring himself to care. He stalked across the floor to the space between his bed and the fireplace and the low couch in front of it and began to pace back and forth, hands clenched into fists at his sides. _ I have to leave, _ he thought, and the anger and agony and futile despair boiled in his blood. _ I have to leave, I have to find him, I cannot simply - _

“Findekáno?”

He froze, rapidly enough that he nearly tripped over his feet. Fury collided with shock and anxiety, leaving him trembling but far calmer. The voice belonged to his sister Írissë, who had undoubtedly come to investigate the source of the loud _ thud _ of wood against plaster; he guessed that she would be standing in the doorway. He took a deep breath, shoulders rigid, and let it out in a heavy sigh.

“Írissë,” he said in acknowledgement.

“What is going on?” she asked. “You are lucky that Atya and Turukáno are out where the bathhouse is being built or else you would surely get some sort of lecture from them for making so much noise.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, and turned to face her, his eyes skimming along the floor. He could feel the anger rising in him again.

“Of course it matters,” she said. “And - were you not hunting?”

“I was,” he said, and his gaze flicked up to rest on her shoulder and the sturdy white gown she was clad in. “I came back.”

“Why?” she asked, stepping into the room. He sighed.

“Shut the door, would you?” he asked. Írissë frowned, but nodded, and turned to push his door closed and shut the latch. He found himself walking aimlessly to the back of the couch, resting his hands on it, staring at the hasty upholstering and the shoddy stitches. 

“What is going on, Findekáno?” his sister asked. Her voice was quiet, and nervous.

_ I might as well tell her, _ he thought, rolling his eyes.

“I met one of _ them _ in the woods,” he said in reply, voice dripping with venom. 

“... oh,” Írissë answered. “Oh.” She paused for a moment, then sighed and asked “And how did you fare?”

“It was Ambarussa,” he said, sighing again himself. “We argued, and argued, and then argued more for a change of pace.”

“Was it... m?”

“Arguing with a sword? No. I have spilled no more blood.”

“Then why - ?”

“Because I garnered some news of their doings since the burning of the ships,” Findekáno answered. The rage was draining out of him, leaving a cold dread in its wake. _ Oh, Valar, _ he thought, _ oh Eru, he is gone, he is gone… _His hands began to shake. He let them drop from the couch and paced around it instead, sinking onto its less than comfortable cushions and hearing the straw creak around his weight. “And what I have learned is… is frightful, and frightening, and I do not know what to do.” He bowed his head, staring at the floor and at the places where his boots were worn thin. 

There was a sound of light footsteps, and then a hand on his arm; he looked at it to find a white sleeve over dark skin, and his sister by his side.

“Look at me, Findekáno,” Írissë implored. “You’re dodging my gaze like Itarillë when she’s stolen an apple tart from the kitchen. Look at me. What’s got you so upset?”

_ What can I say? _ he thought, and then found that he no longer had the willpower to hide. He sighed, and lifted his head, and locked eyes with her and let his thoughts open to her questions.

She started back, almost tripping over the end table, and her face grew pale with shock and fury.

“You... you _ didn’t_...”

“Please - !” he replied, but she was already shaking her head and turning for the door.

“I’m telling Atya about this,” she said, voice trembling with anger.

“No!” Findekáno cried, rising to his feet, arm outstretched as he took two steps to follow her. “Írissë, please, no!”

“You’re his _ heir_! After we’d settled he was going to start searching for a wife for you! You cannot simply dismiss your own future Kingship!”

“We haven’t done anything wrong!”

“After all they’ve done to us, after all we’ve endured?” she shot back. “After Elenwë and Arakáno _died_? You _still_ _married him_?”

Findekáno shook his head numbly, lips quivering, and dropped his gaze to the floor again.

“No,” he said at last, with great effort. “Before.”

Írissë froze, her anger turning to confusion. “What?”

He sank to his knees on the floor, hands shaking, staring at a spot between the polished boards.

“The night before he left with the ships. Not today.”

Írissë’s mouth fell open. She could feel the blood draining from her face.

“And he still - he stranded us, and you - he _ left _ you? His _ husband_?”

“It was foolish,” Findekáno continued, almost as if he hadn’t heard her, “_ we _ were foolish, battle-thrilled and elated to be alive, eager to face what came, and - !”

“And then he _ abandoned _ you, after you were made one in the sight of the Allfather?” Írissë cried, her voice rising to a shrill and high-pitched anger.

“No!” her brother replied, looking at her again, just long enough to let her see the intense agony in his eyes. “No, he - he tried to come back, he spoke to me, Ambarussa doesn't know if he helped to burn the ships - that was how I knew what they were doing, you know, how I understood what the far-off fires meant - but Fëanáro told him it would be treason to oppose an order from the High King, and I was so _ angry _ that I sealed myself off from him completely in the hours when our bond ought to have been strongest, and I’ve - I’ve been _ alone, _ inside my head, all the way across the Ice, and I would have demanded an apology from him today but I found out - !”

His voice broke, and he dropped his eyes back to the floor, and the tremor in his hands had spread to his whole body. Long-suppressed sobs found their way to the surface, and Írissë watched as her brother, who had not shed a single tear since their grandfather’s funeral, finally broke down and wept. Stunned, she knelt beside him, draping one arm over his shaking shoulders until at last he had calmed enough that she felt she could speak again.

“Found out what?” she asked, voice soft. Her indignation and fury had melted away. 

Findekáno shook his head, lips white from the effort of keeping them closed. 

“Finno…” she pressed, brushing a strand of loose hair behind one ear. “You can talk to me. What did you find out?”

“He’s… he’s _ gone, _ Írissë,” her brother said at last, voice thick with sorrow.

Ice poured into her veins. “Gone?” she asked. “What do you mean? Dead?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Worse. Captured, by Moringotto. Held captive for at least one-sixth of a _ yén_.”

“_What?!_”

Findekáno nodded, slowly regaining control of himself. “And what’s more - they knew of it - his brothers? They knew and they did not so much as send a scout to see if he might be found and freed or to judge the Black Foe’s strength of arms, and I - I was so angry at him, so self-absorbed, that I shut him out completely and I did not know. My own _ husband _ has been a prisoner, and I did not know, because I refused to let him in.” He shivered, and looked back at her briefly. “I… I still have not let him in.”

For a very long moment there was nothing but silence. Findekáno was trembling still, unwilling to say more than he already had; Írissë found she had nothing to say that was not punctuated with endless curses in the direction of their cousins across the lake. 

"They... they _ left _ him?" she managed to ask at last, and it was clear she could scarcely believe it. "They knew he was held captive and they did _ nothing _”

“Or so I was told,” Findekáno replied, shrugging off her arm and sitting back on the floor.

“But this is vile!”

“Can we truly expect better from those who stranded us and left us to cross the Ice?” 

“I cannot _ believe _ they are capable of such heartlessness!" 

"Ambarussa did not call it heartless," Findekáno replied bitterly. "He said I ought to be kinder. That Macalaurë is trying very hard to be a good King." 

“What did you say to - wait, that _ Macalaurë _ is trying? Why should Macalaurë call himself King, and not his father?"

"Because Fëanáro is dead," he answered simply. "If what I was told is true, he died shortly after they arrived. In battle with an _ Úmaia_, a _ Valarauko _. And Pityafinwë died earlier still, in the blaze at Losgar."

"... what?" Írissë said for the second time, her face again shifting into pale sick shock. "Fëanáro and Ambarto both dead? Is this true? Do you know it for a fact?”

"Ambarussa had no cause to be dishonest," Findekáno answered. "Or if he were to lie, surely it would be to tell me that their ranks were swollen with new recruits from the Avari who dwell here." 

"Perhaps," Írissë answered, and shivered. "Have you told Atya of what you heard? He would want to know his brother is - gone." 

"No," Findekáno replied. "I meant to come back here, arm myself, and leave at once to rescue Russandol. If you had not stopped me, I would be far from our encampment by now."

"Then it is well I did stop you," she told him, "for while I recognize that you wish to save your husband, you cannot keep this news from our _ atar_." 

"I will tell him that Fëanáro is dead," Findekáno said. "I will say nothing of Russandol, or else he would surely forbid me from my errand."

"He should forbid you!" Írissë insisted, her expression keen and desperate. "Do you even know Maitimo yet lives?"

"What?" Findekáno asked, his eyes flicking briefly back up to hers. "What do you mean?"

"If he has been captive for so long, and none have tried to free him or negotiate for his release, then... then how do you know he is not slain?" 

Findekáno felt as though his blood had turned to ice. This was his deepest fear, the fear he did not dare consider for more than a moment, the fear he had buried as soon as it surfaced. He shrugged off Írissë's offered embrace and shook his head. 

"I do not know for certain," he said dully. "I know Ambarussa believed he was alive. But I know nothing else." 

"Would you know if he were dead?" she asked in response. "Would you have felt his death?" 

"I have no idea," he replied. "I thought to ask Turukáno, but - " 

"But that would mean telling Turukáno, I know," she answered, and frowned. "Atya knows that Ammë is alive and well, despite the great distance between them. He has never said that they can speak mind-to-mind as they could in Aman? But he knows she lives, and that she is in no pain save the pain of separation from her husband and children."

"How do you know?" Findekáno asked. 

"I asked him once. I wished to know if he could send her my love." 

"So then, if I open myself," her brother said, "it stands to reason that I might be able to at least know that much." 

"Do you know how?" 

"No. Do you?" 

She laughed at that. "I, at least, have no secret spouses. In fact I doubt I shall marry at all." 

"I do not recommend it," Findekáno said wryly. "It has brought me nothing but a political headache." 

"Perhaps if you'd chosen a more fit husband, then - " 

"No," he said, and there was a fire to his words that had been absent before. "No, I have loved him since I left childhood behind me. If he did not feel the same, I would be as you, a perpetual bachelor." 

"Pining after grim, unreachable Maitimo?" Írissë said, laughing faintly. "I cannot imagine such a life for you." 

Findekáno returned her smile, briefly meeting her eyes again, and she realized that he had become quite skillful at never looking any of their family in the face and never letting it show. "Neither can I," he said. "But come, it is time to face my fate. If my husband is alive, surely this will tell me." 

He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back and drawing himself up. His eyes closed, and he began to undo the years of anger and misery that lay thick upon the sparks of his marriage-bond.

"Wait," Írissë said suddenly, putting a hand on his arm. He opened his eyes and looked at her. 

"Yes?" 

"If... if he is alive, if he can be freed, and if the rift between our Houses is healed, then..." 

"Then what?" 

"Then will you tell Atya? Will you have a proper ceremony?" 

"And watch my father turn to flame as Fëanáro did, only this time from his rage at my betrayal?" Findekáno asked, and this time it was his turn to laugh. "No, sister, I think it is best if we keep what we have done a secret." 

"Atya will find out eventually, you know," she said. "He knows you too well." 

"I am his son, just as he is my father," Findekáno said. "And I will tell him, when the time is right. But that time is not now." He closed his eyes again, took another anchoring breath - 

\- and opened the bond.

* * *

_ He is bent over, on all fours, bracing himself against something cold and smooth and flat, and his knees are stinging. This is the only pain, and it frightens him, though he cannot say why. The words are hanging from his tongue, and then shrivel and die when he turns his thoughts to them. _

_ He opens his eyes. He is staring down at a black stone floor, massive and seamless, polished to perfection. There is no light save a frightful silvery gleam high overhead, but he can see himself in the reflection. He does not know who he is looking at, and he does know, and there is a burning terror rising like bile in the back of his throat. He is thin, and starved, and gaunt, and pale-skinned, and his face is crossed by angry red lines and covered in bruises. There are scars and cuts and lacerations on shaking hands and arms that struggle to hold him upright. His shoulder burns with a low, comfortable warmth, for his brand has awakened in the presence of he whose sigil it bears. How he knows this, he is not sure. _

_ His eyes are no longer brown, and they burn as if their molten silver could stream out and cover the world, and when he sees them the horror that has been building can no longer be contained. He screams, and there is no sound that escapes the thin lips staring up at him out of the floor. _

_ “Well, well,” a low and rumbling Voice says. “What have we here?” _

_ There is a new and fresh terror to mingle with his own, now, and he is seized by its copper fire and dragged down, down. The words are laced with power and rising might and hatred deeper than the deepest sea, and in their echo is a trail of broken chords that form their own mockery of song. He is shaking, and weak, and half-mad with fear. There is nothing that has been done to him, no one who has touched him, and yet, and yet - _

_ “We don’t know what to do with this one,” a harsh and ugly voice says from behind him. “He’s no fun anymore. He just lies there. Doesn’t even scream.” _

_ “How unfortunate,” the Voice replies, and the will behind it curls around him and fills him with fear and pain and terror and nausea and desperate hot need that pools in his belly and his hips, and in that moment he would do anything to be touched and he would do anything to be slain. “And look at you, pet, you pathetic useless thing. I heal your wounds so that you are in a fit state to be brought before my court, and this is how you greet me?” _

_ He says nothing, does nothing. He shivers, and bites back sobs that he does not understand, and he pleads for death and he pleads for relief. _

_ “Look at me,” the Voice commands, and his head is drawn inexorably upward and he is blinded by a spark of white fire that at first seems to outshine the stars themselves before dimming and dividing into three. His teeth are chattering, and his shoulders shake, and he knows where he is and who he is staring at. _

_ “You need to learn respect, pet,” the owner of the Voice - I will not say his name, I will not dignify him with a word of his own - says. “Rise to your feet, and kneel again. Properly. If you have not been trained to it, we shall teach you here and now.” His tone is bored, and indulgent, as he speaks, and this is the worst of it. _

_ He cannot resist, not with the eyes and will of the owner of the Voice upon him. And so he rises, slowly, awkwardly, his legs shrieking protests beneath him, and he stands before the dark shape enthroned in gleaming black stone and crowned with light. _

_ “Kneel,” the Voice orders. He obeys, both knees bending as one, and sinks to the floor. The impact is hard, and fast, and with every heartbeat he can feel the owner of the Voice gloating over him. He weeps, and does not know why he weeps, and shivers at the jeers of his guards who have seen the tears. _

_ “Better,” says the Voice, “but you can do better still, I think. Get up.” _

_ He obeys, the pain in his legs ignored. The collar about his neck is heavy and sharp and he fears it will cut him badly if he tries to shift its weight. He does not know what is going on, and he does know, and the mingling confusion and despair are drowning him. _

_ “Kneel,” the Voice orders again, and he obeys, and the need and the terror and the compulsion twist in his gut. This time it is slower, more graceful, and his knees part and his hands come to rest palm-up on his thighs. He is shaking so forcefully that his vision blurs. _

_ “Oh, that is better,” the Voice tells him, and he is pleased at the praise, and he is disgusted with himself, and he can do nothing but swallow his screams. “But I think I want to see you do that at least once more. Again. Get up.” _

_ He is ordered to kneel once, twice, thrice, countless times more, until all that he is yearns only for approval, for the soft touch of a rewarding caress, for silence and darkness and blessed oblivion. His knees burn and ache. He is barely aware of the pain. But finally, finally, the order does not come to rise, and he fights the urge to curl in on himself and sob. _

_ “So, pet,” the Voice says with a sigh, “What to do with you.” _

_ “None of us want him anymore,” a second guard says. “He’s used up. No more sport, no more fun.” _

_ “Is he, now?” the Voice asks. Dark amusement pricks at the edges of its words. He trembles and is silent. _

_ “No good for anything,” the first guard agrees. “If you want him for something, you can have him.” _

_ There is a long, frightful, horrible pause, and then he can feel the owner of the Voice begin to smile. The air shifts and coils about him. He begins to sob and drops his head, staring at his own reflection. _

_ “Bring me up one of Carcharoth’s whelps,” the Voice says. “Not too young. A little larger than our pet. I know exactly what to do with him.” _

_ Panic. Sheer, sharp, bloody panic, and with panic comes clarity, comes wholeness, comes - _

_ “Findekáno?” _

_ He is suddenly not alone. There is another, and this newcomer is burning silver-hot and is brimming with terror. _

_ “Maitimo?” he asks, and no words are spoken, but he knows he is heard. The face reflected back at him grows pale, and sick with horror, and its eyes widen and its mouth falls open in shock, and he realizes - no, this cannot be, you cannot - _

_ “Get out,” the other tells him, growing more and more present with every heartbeat. _

_ “What?” he asks, frantic and confused. “No!” _

_ But the other is shoving, pushing, forcing him back, building walls as easily as breathing, and the scene before him grows dim. _

_ “You cannot be here, Findekáno!” _

_ “What is going on?” _

_ “Get out get out get _out!”

_ The world goes black. _

* * *

Findekáno opened his eyes. The world was dark, and warm, and there was something covering his face and mouth that smelled of straw, and he could not move. His throat ached, and his jaw was sore, and he realized as a frightful shrieking sound died in his ears that he had been screaming. 

He took a shuddering breath. There were tears in his eyes, and he found he could not stop shaking. For a moment, there was nothing in the whole of Arda save for his own body and wherever he was resting. One heartbeat, two, three - 

\- “Findekáno?!” someone asked. _ I know that voice, _ he thought dimly, and then suddenly recognition struck.

“Írissë?” he answered, and his voice was muffled, and he struggled to sit up. The weight on his limbs shifted, and moved, and he realized it must have been his sister herself. She had been holding a pillow to his face, and it fell into his lap as he pushed himself upright. He had been lying flat on his back, on the floor of his bedroom. 

“You - you were _ screaming, _ Findekáno,” she said, and her face was unnaturally pale with shock. “I - I am sorry, but I thought - you would have roused the whole house, I - !”

“No,” Findekáno said, and shook his head. “Do not apologize. Please.” There were tears in his eyes, and a lump in his throat, and he was shaking. Írissë reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Is… is he…?” she asked, and he took a breath and felt it turn to a cold sadness that coiled around his heart. _ If I say he is alive, she will know it, and she will stop me from going after him. She will tell Atya, even, and he will order me not to go, and then if I defy him I will be traitorous and treasonous - _

_ \- I only have one option, _ Findekáno realized, sadness bleeding into sick and horrified certainty. _ I must deceive her. I will never be able to slip away unless I do. For I cannot - I cannot leave him to _ that, _ I - _

“He is dead,” he said aloud, and tears filled his eyes. “He is slain. I sought for him in my mind and found only emptiness.”

“Oh,” Írissë said. “Oh, Findekáno, I - !”

He reached out and seized his sister by the shoulder, pulling her into a tight embrace. The tears came easily enough - they were born of what he had seen, what he had felt, what Maitimo had known was coming - and he buried his face in her tunic and wept. Both her arms went around him, supporting him; he wondered if she would be so gentle if she knew what he planned to do. 

“I… I could not save him…” he murmured, and her embrace tightened. That much, at least, was true - whatever horrors his spouse endured right now were beyond his ability to deflect or forestall. _ What sort of husband _ am _ I, to lose myself in my own private miseries while he suffered _ that _ ? I am a poor excuse for a friend, a prince, a _ nér, _ and I deserve every torment lain upon his shoulders and more besides - _

\- he gave in to his grief, until the guilt and the shame had bled out of him and left stony resolve behind.

* * *

When the dinner-bell sounded, Findekáno and Írissë had no choice but to rise from the floor and file into the modest room that passed for a dining hall. They were the last of their family to arrive, and took their accustomed places closest to their father; Írissë was on his left and Findekáno his right. Beside them on either side were Turukáno and Itarillë respectively, with their Arafinwëan cousins on the other side of the table. His _atarnesa_ Lalwendë, as usual, was absent; almost certainly either dining with her friends in the camp or else in the woods alone. The meal had already been served, baked tubers piled high in an earthen serving-dish and accompanied by cooked greens and mugs of the nearly-ubiquitous _ ránelet _ tea that the healers ordered everyone to drink. Though it was a meager repast compared to what they had known in Valannor, it made Findekáno’s mouth water. 

“It is good of you to join us,” his father Nolofinwë said lightly; Findekáno fought to keep from blushing. As reprimands went this was surely a light one, more of a jest meant to remind him of his expected behavior than a true correction, and yet he found it cut more deeply than it would on any other day. _ Nothing about me must seem out of the ordinary, _ he thought, but he could feel Írissë’s eyes on him and he knew that was nearly impossible.

“We - I - beg pardon for our tardiness, Atya,” his sister said, and he picked up a two-pronged fork and stabbed at a tuber with uncharacteristic vehemence.

“No apology is necessary,” Nolofinwë replied, though Findekáno could hear the confusion in his voice.

“Still,” Írissë said, “we are sorry.”

Awkward silence settled over the table. Findekáno could feel several pairs of eyes on him. He took a bite out of the tuber, trying unsuccessfully to lose himself in the bland flavor. 

“How was everyone’s day?” Itarillë asked suddenly, cutting through the tension.

“I mostly chopped firewood,” Artaresto answered just as suddenly, and made a face. “I know it is necessary, but I cannot say I enjoyed it.”

_ Oh, thank Nessa, _ Findekáno thought, invoking Itarillë’s favorite Vala. He turned his full attention to his food as his siblings and cousins fell into light conversation. It occurred to him that perhaps his niece and almost-nephew had planned this - they often fell into intense bouts of silent conversation in defiance of conversational etiquette - but at the very least, it meant that he was not the object of scrutiny by the table.

“We went hunting,” Findaráto said, glancing at Angaráto and Aikanáro. “Unsuccessfully, but we tried.”

“Findekáno went hunting as well, I think?” Artanís asked. She was sitting across from him, and her blue eyes were sharply intrigued. “Perhaps he had more good fortune than you did.” 

Findekáno looked pointedly at his tea, taking a sip and ignoring the invitation to speak.

“Alone?” Angaráto replied, almost laughing. “No offense is meant, cousin, but the game here is hardier than we are used to.” 

“Well, Findekáno?” Nolofinwë asked him, turning to his left. “Did you have any success?” 

He sighed deeply and set the mug of tea down. _ Nothing for it. I shall have to say _ something, _ I suppose. _

“No,” he said aloud, “but I met Ambarussa in the woods.”

Silence fell instantly, and all eyes were on him. He kept his gaze fixed on his tea and said nothing more.

“Well, it had to happen at some point,” Findaráto said. “I suppose we are lucky it was them and not their father.”

“_Ha!_” Findekáno answered, the laugh bitter in his mouth. “If it had been Fëanáro I would be far more shaken than I am. But no, it was only Telufinwë that I met.”

“Only the one of them?” Aikanáro asked. “That is strange.”

“Not half as strange as the tale he told me,” Findekáno continued, casting his gaze about the table before letting it come to rest on his mug of tea once more. “For, if he can be believed, Fëanáro is dead, and Pityafinwë is dead, and Russandol is dead.” 

The whole table seemed to flinch, shock and fear and confusion thick in the air.

“What?” his father asked at last. “How?”

He shrugged, and fought back the tears that ever followed him at the thought of his husband, and shook his head, and spoke again.

“Fëanáro fell in battle with an Úmaia,” he said. “Burned alive.” He forced himself to take another drink of tea and swallow a building sob. “Pityafinwë burned as well, when they set fire to the ships. He had gone aboard one of them and was trapped and could not escape.”

“_Ercamando,_” Findaráto swore, and Itarillë flinched and almost giggled at the novelty of it. Angaráto shot her a stern look, and she quieted. 

“As for Maitimo,” Findekáno said, “he - he was captured, by Moringotto, shortly after his father’s death.” His voice nearly broke. Despite the lie he meant to tell, he could still barely stomach the reality of his husband’s condition. He choked back yet another sob. “His brothers have had no word of him. They assume him to be dead.” 

Utter silence greeted him once he had finished. He did not dare to look up, to meet the prying eyes that were no doubt desperate for more detail. Instead he took yet another sip of tea. His shoulders were shaking. No one spoke, or ate, or moved.

At last, Turukáno scoffed. “And I am supposed to grieve for them?”

“_Turukáno!_” Írissë cried, horrified.

“What?” he retorted. “We are all thinking it! After what we have lost, after what _ they _ have cost us, we are meant to mourn their dead as though none of this was their fault at all?”

“They are our kin, regardless of what they have done,” Nolofinwë said flatly. His tone was unreadable. “And _ you_, my son, will behave as befits a prince of your station.”

“I will not,” Turukáno said, “not if it means ignoring the deaths of my brother, my _ wife_.”

“If we are to go _ that _ route,” Aikanáro said, “then - !”

“Let’s not,” Artanís said, “and say we did.”

“Are we capable of keeping order at the dinner table?” Angaráto asked drily. “The children are calmer than you are, cousin.”

“You are one to talk so, Angaráto, with your beloved Eldalótë safe in Aman!”

“I need to be excused,” Findekáno said to no one in particular, and set his mug down on the table with a _ clack, _ and stood up. 

“Findekáno!” Írissë called after him, but he ignored her, turning on his heel and making for the door at a pace that was very nearly a run.

“Let him go,” Turukáno told her, voice dripping with scorn. “He’s practically one of them, anyway.”

“_That _ is _ enough,_” Nolofinwë said, and there was real anger building in his words. But Findekáno did not hear what he said next - he had reached the door, and fumbled with the latch, and pushed out into the hallway. 

He reached his room in a blur of tears and fury, hands shaking as he pushed the door open. The light of the setting sun streamed in through his windows, bathing the walls in red-gold light. _ Like firelight, _ he thought bitterly, _ like torchlight_; he threw himself onto his bed and sobbed. 

_ I cannot do this - I _ cannot - _ I must, I _must - 

\- _ but how? I do not know where Angamando _ is _ from where I stand, I could not find it save to go north and hope for good fortune - I must _ try, _ at least, at least… _

* * *

Findekáno opened his eyes. The sun had set; he could see the stars through the window. Beneath his head, the pillow he had clung to was soaked with tears. _ I must have fallen asleep, _ he thought, and carefully began to sit up. Then it hit him, in an instant - _ it is dark, it is night, I can slip away in shadow! _

He got to his feet quickly and quietly, doing his best to avoid the points where he knew the floorboards would creak. He could dress and pack easily enough here - his hardier traveling clothes were folded on a shelf in the small nook that sadly passed for a closet, and there was a crude knapsack hanging on the wall by the door - but when it came time for food, or weapons, he would have to find some way to sneak through the house proper. _ I can get by without a sword, _ he reasoned, _ and I suppose I can forage for food as I go, which means I can bypass the kitchens and the armory. And what is more I almost certainly_ must_ bypass them, necessary or not - I dare not light a lamp, and I do not trust myself to fumble around in the dark for weapons or bread. I must make do with what I have here and now._

Findekáno stripped out of his clothes, leaving them on the bed; he quickly donned a woolen undershirt in pale grey and drew a blue tunic in sturdy cloth over that. _ Layers. Layers will be my salvation, especially if it is colder up North. _ He took the pack down off the wall, and put three pairs of leggings in the bottom of it, and then added the shirt and trousers he had worn that day for good measure. _ I have very little time. I must be gone before the sun rises. _ He reached for a wide-toothed comb that sat on the side table beside his bed, thought better of it, and left it alone. _ My hair has been in these braids since before we made the crossing; they desperately need to be redone, but they can wait until I have returned. _ A small pouch with bone picks and a sharp-tasting paste for cleaning his teeth was next, and an iron hook on a length of thread for fishing, and a small boot knife in the shape of one of Telperion’s leaves. _ Rope? _ he thought absently, and shook his head. _ Not enough room, and if I need it I shall almost certainly be able to steal it from Moringotto. And what rope we have was hard bought from the Sindar, I cannot take it in good conscience. _He went back to his closet and set aside another tunic, and a long scarf, and a hooded cloak, and a thick pair of woolen socks, and put them into his pack.

At last, Findekáno had come to the bottom of his wardrobe, and the small satchel that had not left his side once through the whole of the Crossing. He took a deep breath, knelt, and drew it up out of the corner, resisting the urge to clutch it to his chest and weep once more. His fingers ran over the tooled leather, tracing the intricate spirals embossed into its surface, but after a few moments he sighed and opened the bag. Inside, nestled against one another, were a pale green stone that gleamed in the darkness and a long knife in an elegant black sheath. 

Tears filled his eyes again - _ no, _ no, _ I will not weep, not here and now when I have so much to do - _ and he shivered and rocked back on his heels and fought to master himself. _ These are coming with me. I will not leave them for prying eyes to find. _

At last, Findekáno took another breath and rose to his feet. He wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand, and slung the satchel over his shoulders with the strap cutting across his chest. _ I am nearly ready, _ he thought, _ I only have to - _

_ \- ai, _ muk. 

He froze, his hands clenching in frustration at his sides.

_ How am I going to get into Angamando? _ Ercamando, ercanyë, _ how - Grinding Ice, what am I going to _do?

Findekáno paced back to his bed and sat down, sinking his head into his hands and staring down at the floorboards.

_ Think. You have been there once before, with your father’s host, to hear his challenge issued. The gates are - no, I am not going to be able to get in through the gates. Could I issue a challenge of my own? Offer myself up as a prisoner in his stead? If Fëanáro is dead - my father is not, and my father is then King of our people, is he not? Surely a Crown Prince is a better prize than Russo is. _

_ I could get myself captured, and bound as a thrall, and seek to escape from within. But if I take that path, my gear will surely be taken from me, and I will not let Moringotto take _ this _ jewel from my hands. _

He shook his head silently, the tears welling up in his eyes. _ I have failed, _ he thought, _ I have failed before I have even set out. And yet… _

There was something pricking at his thought. He could feel it. An idea, or a hope, lingering beyond the edges of his conscious awareness, like the memory of a dream, or - 

\- or a song echoing on the air.

_ Oh. _

He sat up suddenly, tense as a bowstring, and turned to look across the room. There was the low couch, and the fireplace, and the chair in the corner, and - _ ha! _ \- his harp, sitting against the cushions of the chair, catching the first rays of moonlight. 

Findekáno stood up again. He had gone from despondent to almost giddy in a scant handful of seconds, and his heart pounded in his ears. _ The world was crafted of song, _ he thought, and when he closed his eyes he saw Artanís as she had been just that morning in the rosy light of the dawn, saw her sitting with Artaresto and Itarillë, saw her mend a shattered mug with a smile and a few measures of complicated melody.

_ I know what I have to do, _ he realized, and his mouth was dry as he crossed the room and seized his harp. _ I know what I have to do. _

The harp was awkward, and heavy, and too large for his pack. It had been his since his very early childhood, though he had never been particularly good at playing it, and it had survived the crossing of the Ice only because he had refused to let it be burned. Findekáno had not known then why he was so insistent, but now there was a dead certainty in his heart that it had been some final kindness of Irmo or even the Doom-speaker himself to move him; there was a thrill in his limbs and fingers as he held the now-treasured instrument. _ I cannot strap it down very well, _ he thought ruefully, _ but neither can I carry it. I suppose I have very little choice, then - I will secure it as best I can and hope that it is enough. _

He set to work in the darkness, not daring to light even a candle and give any sign that he was not asleep, fixing his harp in place with strips of cloth torn from a roll of bandages. It was slow progress, and more than once he despaired of achieving a strong hold, but at last after practically wrapping the whole of his pack in the light fabric and fastening the strips together with makeshift pins crafted from wire from two of his braids, he was satisfied that it would endure. _ I will not win any prizes for aesthetics, _ he thought, _ but I am not aiming for such a goal. _

The light of the moon was streaming in through his window by the time he had finished, and the stars were gleaming in the sky as he slipped his pack over his shoulders. His heart swelled to look at them, high and lofty and far above all shadows; he found his gaze resting on the Sickle of the Valar and its unspoken promise of evil defeated. _ I do not pray as a habit, _ he thought, directing his attention to the Elentári for the first time in years uncounted, _ and yet… _

_ … and yet, may I find him, may I find him swiftly, may I bring him home. _

His hands were shaking as he climbed out of his window, landing easily in the grass. There were no sentries on this side of their camp, and the guards that watched his family’s house were stationed by the doors. He had a clear path to the woods no further than a furlong from where he stood, and it would be easy enough to circle around the lake and make his way north from there. He shifted his pack higher on his back, and felt to ensure the satchel was securely closed, and set off at a run through the darkness.

_ Hold on, Maitimo, _ he thought. _ I am coming for you. _


	2. The Pieces are Moving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took forever to write. In the meantime, I've written much of what comes later, and I've decided to switch the genre from solely gen to gen and romance, since the relationship between Maedhros and Fingon is so central. Hopefully chapter three will come faster, but until then, I hope you all enjoy! 
> 
> "Misrim"=Mithrim, just so all of you know. That Nolofinwëan dialectical shift is fun.

_ “You shouldn’t be here.” _

_ There are hands on his hands, and the comforting weight of a head on his shoulder, and his knees are tucked under long legs that are drawn up against his chest. They are sitting in his tent, curled up into one another, propped up against a haphazard collection of pillow and blanket and bedroll. They have been weeping, but now all eyes are dry. _

_ “I don’t care what I should or shouldn’t do,” the other says, and his breath is hot in the cool of the night against bare collarbone, and his voice is low and anxious. “I… I had to get away from him. I _ had _ to.” _

_ Findekáno turns, his arms drawing tighter as if to screen out the world, and he catches Russandol’s eye in the dim echoes of torchlight. _

_ “He… I fear he has gone mad,” his lover admits. “He is irrational, and paranoid, and flinching at shadows. He fears treachery that does not exist. I thought - it seemed that surely - when you and your people…” _

_ “When we plunged into blood and water and damned ourselves?” he asks, and it is almost bemused. _

_ “Yes. That. I thought surely, _ surely _ , he would have seen that you and your father were not usurpers seeking to grasp at a throne you do not desire.” _

_ “He is still convinced my father is a threat?” _

_ “He will not believe me, or Carnistir, or anyone, who tells him that it was a populist movement that sought to supplant him and not Nolofinwë himself. We his sons are deceived, all others are lying to him.” _

_ Findekáno sighs, and holds Russandol to him. “I suppose this is a terrible time to tell him about us?” _

_ His lover splutters, and protests, and pushes himself out from encircling arms. “We - !” _

_ But he is already laughing, voice quiet in the dark. _

_ “This is not something to jest about!” Russandol hisses. _

_ “I have damned myself to save you,” Findekáno answers. “Let me make a jest of it.” _

_ Russandol sits up, looking at him; when he is not curled up cat-fashion against his lover he is tall enough that he could reach up and touch the canvas roof of the tent._

_ “You should not have done that,” he says, all mournful where moments before he was sparking and indignant. _

_ “I care not for what I _ should _ have done,” Findekáno says. “You would have been slain. I could not let that happen.” _

_ “And if I - if we all - deserve death?” _

_ He scoffs. “If we deserve death, the Allfather will almost certainly deliver it to us.” _

_ “If you believe Námo - !” _

_ “I _ do _ believe him, but I also note that he did not say _ when _ we would come to his Halls. And I say we have many long days and nights ere we must face that final call.” _

_ Russandol sighs. “You are full to the brim with optimism, my love, and I know not what kindles it in you.” He is silhouetted against the dimly lit tent, lithe and lean and perfect even in the darkness, and Findekáno’s heart is pounding in his chest. _

_ “You,” he says, and he reaches out and takes Russandol’s pale hand in his own a second time. “You are alive, and I thought surely you would perish in that dreadful fight. And we… we have done frightful things this night, but we live still. We have faced doom and damnation, and now a world opens up before us. And - and even here, in the bloodstained aftermath? You are lovely to me.” _

_ “You’re - you’re _ flirting _ with me?” Russandol’s voice is incredulous, and he starts back. “Here? _Now?!”

_ “And why shouldn’t I flirt with you? You are here, and we are more or less truly alone.” _

_ Russandol stares at him, more or less aghast. “I just - _ we _ just - how many of my kindred did I _ murder _ , only hours ago?” _

_ “Roughly as many as I did,” Findekáno answered, and moves closer to him. “And surely in a few more hours I shall be wrecked and wrathful and sick with guilt. But now - now I am none of those things.” His hand runs up Russandol’s arm to his shoulder, drawing him near. “Now, I am something else entirely.” _

_ His lover raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And what would that be?” _

_ Findekáno looks up at him, and his brown eyes are smoldering. “Amorous,” he says, and kisses Russandol suddenly. _

_ The other _ nér _ moans, and gasps, and returns the kiss, though it is clear he is surprised. When they break apart, he is shaking his head. _

_ “No,” he says. “No, we ought to be _ remorseful, _ we - !” _

_“Russandol,” Findekáno said, and his words are plaintive and desperate, “I can feel the rising horror in me, at what we have done, at what _I _have done. If I think on it, I will be sick with fright and guilt and shame.” His other hand rises to cup his lover’s face, and caresses his cheek, and the creamy skin is even starker beneath his own brown hand. “I have a people to lead, alongside my father - those who will only heed us despite his pledge of loyalty to Fëanáro. And I - I must be firm for them, be solid and immovable and sure. I must believe I made the right decision. I _must. _And I…” He laughs, and it is shrill and sharp-edged. “I did this for you. I plunged us into doom for you. My people followed me, and I attacked _for you._ I… I would see that to its_ _ending, before that damned horror takes me and I am loathe to look at myself.”_

_ Russandol turns his head, lips brushing the palm of Findekáno’s hand. _

_ “I, too, would flee from horror,” he says, and seizes his lover’s wrist and kisses it. _

_ It is Findekáno’s turn to moan as his world shrinks rapidly to a patch of skin and the softness of Russandol’s lips, which are trailing up from hand to forearm to elbow, pushing back wide sleeve and leaving blazing heat in their wake. He bites his own lip, and feels it bruise, and when his lover is at his shoulder he seizes red hair in his free hand and pulls that ravenous mouth up to his own for another kiss. _

_ This time, Findekáno leans back into the pile of blankets and pillow, drawing Russandol down on top of him. They are breathless and gasping and starving for one another, every kiss deeper and more fierce than any they have shared before. He becomes dimly aware that his hands are moving, sliding down over well-muscled shoulders and hips and thighs to fumble with the laces of his lover’s breeches. Russandol’s own hands are likewise occupied, dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers as they undo button after button, and he finds he is barely able to keep from melting into each brush of fingers on skin. He is moaning, and Russandol is moaning, and then there is a hand against him, grasping, palming - _

_ He does not know how they manage to strip out of what is left of their clothes, but in a few scorching seconds they are bare before one another, groping and kissing and caressing. Russandol is grinding against his thigh, hard and hot and throbbing; the hand on his own cock is stroking him off in quick, fervent motions. This is further than they have ever gone before, further than they have dared, dancing closer and closer to a line that cannot be erased once crossed. _

_ He does not care. _

_ “Marry me,” he murmurs, when Russandol’s tongue is not in his mouth. There is _ nómilt _ dripping over the crease between his hip and his thigh, cooling on his skin, and the feel of it drives him forward. “Marry me, and we will not be parted again, even by distance.” _

_ Russandol groans, shuddering against him. _

_ “I… what?” _

_ “I mean it,” he says, and his hand moves to take his lover’s cock in its fingers and begins its own slow stroking. “Slip inside me, and bring yourself to your release, and bind yourself to me.” He draws a whimper from Russandol’s mouth and kisses him again. _

_ “I - !” Russandol gasps. “I want you. I want - !” _

_ Another kiss, another groan. _

_ “Then take me,” he says. “I am yours.” _

_ Russandol’s eyes are burning, molten silver in the dark, and he runs his fingers over Findekáno’s weeping cock, coating them in slick _ nómilt, _ before letting them trail down between his lover’s legs. _

* * *

Findekáno sat up all at once, pulled to wakefulness by something he could not quite grasp. His dream was a fast-fading memory, of darkness and joy and wet heat and lips and hands, but now, in the light of dawn, he was cold and utterly alone. 

He had fallen asleep while sitting against the bole of a great oak tree, its roots creating a hollow near the earth that had been easy enough to rest in. He had not meant to sleep at all, merely to catch his breath and plan out his approach to Angamando; Irmo, it seemed, had other plans for him. He hoped it had not been very long - he was too close to his home for comfort, even after hours of blind flight in what he hoped was a northward direction - and that even now, he would have time to not only learn in what direction he had been walking but also to plot out how best to do what he sought to do. And - 

\- _ oh, damn it, damn _ me, _ a thousand times over, _ he thought, and bit back a few choice curses. _ I have no food, no water-skin. I brought a fishing hook and some twine. I cannot eat fish always, especially as I highly doubt they dwell in the mountains of iron. I am a fool and an ass and an imbecile, I ought to go home with my tail between my legs and act as though this was a foolish attempt at venting my grief, I should - _mana ëa ta?

His litany of self-castigation was interrupted by the sudden sound of movement through the underbrush before him. Immediately he reached for his boot knife only to find it gone; he remembered with dismay that it was somewhere in his pack. His second knife was in the satchel at his side; he was fumbling with it as the noise grew louder and louder. Suddenly, whatever had been coming toward him burst through the underbrush, and before he could undo the clasp of the bag, it was standing over him, and the top of his head was being enthusiastically licked.

“_ Mana _?” he sputtered in confusion, and looked up to see the shaggy head of a wolfhound. He could just spot its wagging tail beyond. It was immense, the size of a pony or a small horse, and even though he had moved, it had not stopped licking him. His heart sank and turned icy.

“Huan?” he asked softly, hoping, praying - 

\- the hound let out a low _ chuff _ of air and put its - _ his _ \- head on Findekáno’s shoulder, tail still wagging so quickly it seemed it might fall off. Huan was his cousin Tyelkormo’s hound, but he had great love for all the Finwëan cousins; Findekáno put his arms about the beast despite his mounting terror, and his eyes filled with tears. _ They really are here, _ he thought with a shiver. Ambarussa in the woods had seemed distant and dreamlike, despite their fierce argument and the tents and low sheds clearly visible across the lake, but Huan was breathing heavily and smelled of earth and moss and pine needles, and his paws were dark with dirt and mud. There was no denying him. 

But, where Huan went, there was almost certainly - 

“Huan?” a deep and booming voice called, and Findekáno froze. _ Tyelkormo. _ Unlike Ambarussa, his older cousin would not bother with civility; he had never been friendly toward anyone outside his own family to begin with, and the Darkening and its fallout had only driven him into greater isolation. He was some distance off, by the sound of his voice, and yet too close for comfort.

_ I shall have to kill him, _ Findekáno thought frantically. _ He will not let me pass, he helped to burn the ships. I shall have to slay him to keep him from stopping me, from slaying _ me _ instead… _

His hands were shaking as he pushed Huan away from him and got to his feet. _ I have killed my kindred once, _ he thought, and remembered torches and screaming and blood foaming up in the water, _ I can do it again. _ His hand went to the satchel at his side again; this time, the clasp opened easily, and he slid his hand inside and seized the knife, pulling it free of its sheath as he drew it out into the air.

_ It’s very nearly funny, _ he thought grimly, _ to think I am slaying him with a knife made by - wait, what in Arda am I _doing?! 

“Huan, where did you run off to?” Tyelkormo called again, and he was a little nearer than before, and Findekáno’s heart was pounding.

_ You cannot kill him, you imbecile, _ he told himself sternly. _ That would be a lovely thing to tell Russandol! ‘Ah, yes, hello, I’ve come to free you, I stabbed your brother to death with the knife you gave me as a betrothal gift!’ Yes, _ that _ is an excellent thing to tell your husband when you carry him out of the Iron Hells. So no, I cannot kill him. _

He flinched suddenly, fear flooding his every breath a second time. _ Grinding Ice, _ he cursed, _ I cannot kill him. _

“Huan!” Tyelkormo called a third time. “I know you can hear me! I will be very displeased if I have to come after you because you’ve gotten yourself into some mud hole!”

Huan gave Findekáno a look that was almost apologetic, and let out a deep bark.

_ He’s coming. _ If Findekáno had been nervous before, he was terrified now. _ He is perhaps a few seconds away. I have to hide, I have to hide - _

He had stepped back instinctively, as if to cringe away from the phantom presence of his cousin; his outstretched hand brushed against the trunk of the tree that had sheltered him. In an instant, he knew what he had to do; he spun around on the heel of his boot and began to climb. The oak had no branches very near to the ground, but he was still strong even after crossing the Ice, and it was easy enough to cling to the bark and push himself upward with both legs. A few frantic heartbeats passed; beneath him, Huan was pawing at the ground where he had slept. Finally, Findekáno could reach out and grab the lowest branch, and he quickly scrambled up into the welcome protection of still-green leaves. He did not stay low, instead climbing up even higher, and he silently thanked the tree for every second that he did not fall. 

At last, when he was high enough that he could see the ground clearly while remaining shielded by the generous oak, he sighed in relief and let himself sit back against the trunk, with one leg propped up under his chin and the other stretched out before him. He took several deep breaths, forcing himself to be calm and be still. _ Tyelkormo is a huntsman, _ he reminded himself, _ born and bred to it, beloved of Oromë; it will take more than mere leaf and branch to elude him. _

“There you are,” his cousin said, and now he was very near indeed. Huan paused in his sniffing to glance over his shoulder, and then turned around and lifted a leg. He marked the earth where he had pawed at it; Findekáno realized suddenly that the hound might have destroyed any sign of his own presence. _ Thank you, _ he thought, though he doubted Huan could hear him. He could see Tyelkormo below where he sat, dressed for a day in the woods with a full quiver on his hip and a robust pack on his shoulders; he watched the other _ nér _ keenly.

“Did that _ morco _ come through here?” Tyelkormo asked, in the same playful tone he might use to ask Huan if he were enjoying his dig in the palace gardens in Tirion. “Is that what you’re fussing over?”

_ A _ morco _ ?! _ Findekáno thought, and started back so violently he thought he might fall from the tree. _ A _ morco _ is what they are hunting? I hope to Tulkas I do not encounter it. _ Below him, Huan chuffed, and turned back to his master, tail wagging slowly.

“Well?” Tyelkormo asked. “Which way did it go? I should like to find it before sundown tonight - I do not relish another night in the woods knowing it might be anywhere nearby.”

Huan seemed to shrug, almost, and walked around the tree in a slow, ever-widening spiral, nose to the ground. Suddenly, he stopped, alerting suddenly. He let out a short but deep bark, and began to move off in a straight line. Findekáno watched through the leaves and wondered if it was a true scenting, or if the hound was purposefully throwing his master off the trail. Either way, it was fortunate, for Tyelkormo followed him without a backward glance. 

“Through there?” he asked, and the disappointment was clear in his voice even from the branches. By craning his head around, Findekáno could just see what it was his cousin was so upset by - Huan was alerting in front of a thick bramble that would have given way to the sheer size of a _ morco _ but that proved a challenge for a hound and a _ nér. _ When his companion chuffed in agreement, Tyelkormo sighed. 

“I suppose there’s nothing for it,” he mused. “We could use the meat, and the last thing we need with year’s-end coming on is something that might turn on us for food in a few months’ time. But I’m not taking my pack through there to get torn to bits.” He nodded, and turned back to the tree and the place where Huan had marked the earth; he was already taking off his pack. He set it on the ground, and opened it, and drew out a heavy blade in a simple sheath and a water-skin; these he fixed to his belt before retrieving a small leather pouch and selecting a short recurved bow from its place at what would have been his back, leaving a second wooden bow behind. He opened the pouch, took out a length of sinew, and strung the bow before securing it over his shoulders.

“I doubt anything will trouble where you’ve marked,” he told Huan, covering over what was left of the pack with leaves. “And if the trail goes cold, we shall know where to camp.” He lifted a hand and put it on the tree, eyes slipping shut briefly; Findekáno wondered if he was thanking it for sheltering his belongings, and hoped it would not give up its secrets. Once this was done, Tyelkormo stood, and wiped his hands on his breeches. 

“All right,” he said, and glanced at Huan. “Lead on, would you?” 

The dog barked sharply and turned back to the bramble, plunging into it. A moment later, Tyelkormo followed, leaving the little clearing in silence once more. 

One heartbeat passed, and then another, and another, and when the count had bled into the triple digits Findekáno sighed in relief. _ That was a narrow thing _ , he thought, _ but it seems I have some good fortune on my side; whatever Vala I have succeeded in not angering has my eternal gratitude. _ He wondered for a moment if he ought to get out of the tree, and then stopped, realizing that his current position might give him yet another unlooked-for boon. _ If it is direction I desire, and direction I lack… _

Slowly, carefully, doing his best not to fall from the tree, he got to his feet, crouching with one hand braced against the trunk. Twice, his foot slipped, and once he very nearly lost his balance entirely and toppled earthward. After many tries, though, and with the help of many branches, he was standing up and secure in his footing. _ I am no woodsman, _ he thought, to himself and to the tree and to anyone who might be listening to him, _ but I hope I can at least manage to climb a little higher. _

The trees here were strange and fey compared with those he had grown up with in Valinor, and yet they were not unkind. More than once as he made his way up, he heard the creak of wood and found a handhold where there had been none moments earlier; twice, when he slipped, a thick branch at his back kept him from falling more than a few inches. He was not sure what, exactly, he had done to so hearten the old oak - for it was old, far older than he was - but he was grateful for its care. The light overhead grew brighter as he climbed until the contrast between it and the shadows cast by the leaves was dizzying, and then at last he found a final foothold, pushed himself up, and broke through the canopy to find himself looking over the whole of the land.

It was an impossibly lovely day, of the sort he had never thought to see again. There were no clouds in the sky, only deep blue overhead, and the Sun was near the zenith of her daily journey, and if he turned his face toward the lake he could feel the faintest edges of the breezes that blew eastward from its shores. The air was warm enough that he did not need to wrap himself in layers but cool enough that he was not uncomfortable, and all around him the trees' leaves were beginning to change from green to gold and brown and red. He had never seen this before, and wondered what it portended; he remembered Tyelkormo's comment about year's end and supposed that the two things might be connected. But it was the mountains he was looking for, and the pass that led north, and so he turned away from the lake and the forest and the bright specks of color signifying his people and their encampments. It was easy enough to find the line of peaks encircling the low plain like dark arms, and if he followed one curve or the other toward the center he could plainly see the gap in them that his father's host had marched through many days ago.

_ That is my mark, then, _ he thought, and did his best to fix the direction in his mind and to memorize the angle of the Sun so that he might find it even on the ground. _ I can climb another tree if I must, and I care not how long it takes to reach it, so long as I am going away from Tyelkormo. _

_ Oh, damn - Tyelkormo. _

His thought had brought him back again to the narrow escape of a few minutes past, and to his chance of escape, and he knew that every moment he lingered in the treetop was a moment he might be spotted. Not that his cousin was foolish enough to look above him for a _ morco _ \- Tyelkormo could indeed be a fool, but never in the woods - but some unseen rise or clearing might lend itself to a pair of sharp eyes and reveal him standing in the thin branches. He had to return to earth, and make himself scarce, and the faster the better.

Findekáno's descent was awkward and reckless, if less desperate than his climb; he had a bruise on his back by the time he was standing by the trunk of the tree once more. It throbbed, and he made a face and tried to reach it to assess if there was broken skin; when he failed he grimaced further and stepped down off the root he was standing on. Before his boot hit the ground, it slipped on something soft; he fell backward with a cry and slammed into the knobs and twining fingers of the oak’s roots. 

“What in the Halls?” he muttered aloud, groaning; he glanced down to the pile of leaves that he had slipped in and realized with a start that it had not been leaves at all.

He had forgotten entirely about Tyelkormo’s pack, buried and shielded from any passing animal; it was this that had caused him to lose his footing. Gingerly, he sat up, massaging the sore spots on his back where it had struck wood, and he stared at the pack as he wondered what to do with it.

_ I could steal it, _ he thought. _ Simply take it and walk away and leave my own in its place. I daresay it is better prepared for the wilds than I am. But - if I do that, he may be able to guess what has happened, and the last thing I want is to cause _ more _ hostility between our families. Family. Just the one family. We are too close to be two branches. _

_ If I do not steal it, though, what am I to do? Leave it here? Surely not. They stole my father’s horse, they stole our livestock and our grain and most of our valuables. I have every right to take it. _Findekáno nodded, as if to agree with himself, and reached forward to seize the pack before suddenly stopping.

_ But - but what of the harp? _

This was troublesome. Tyelkormo’s pack was larger, with many leather loops and pouches on the outside all filled with various tools that would doubtless be useful to a woodsman; there was no space to fasten the makeshift hooks and clasps that he had made, nowhere to anchor the bandages that held the harp in place. _ And I need the harp, if I am to find a way into Angamando, _ he told himself. _ So I cannot steal it. _

He groaned, thinking of the long march that awaited him with only fish for victuals and of the stores of food that were surely in Tyelkormo’s possession. _ There can be no harm in looking, surely - perhaps I can make space in my own pack for something. _

_ And he _ did _ steal Roccolórë. _

His mind made up, Findekáno bent forward and opened his cousin’s pack. What he found put his own preparations for a journey to shame - here were spare cloak and bedroll neatly stowed, and oilcloth pouches filled with waybread and strips of dried meat buttoned to the inside of the leather, and even a series of blades clearly meant for butchering a kill. These he passed by - _ surely, I shall have no need of a bonesaw - _ in favor of a water-skin and several of the pouches of food. Last of all was a bowstring in a small leather pocket, and - _ oh, if he finds me, he shall kill me surely - _the elegant but sturdy bow that Tyelkormo had left behind in favor of its shorter, heavier companion.

_ I need a ranged weapon, _ he told himself as he took off his own pack and slid the curved wood between the strips of bandage so that it would be pressed close against his back as he traveled. _ I need something - anything - better than knives alone. _ Despite this, the thought of what Tyelkormo would do to him if he were caught was nearly enough to make him reconsider; after some frightful minutes weighing his chances of being tracked down by the master hunter, he at last decided he had no other choice. _ Huan saved me once, _ he concluded as he covered the pack with leaves again, _ perhaps he will save me again. _

He rose to his feet, newly supplied and feeling far better about his chances, and began to make his way north at an easy, loping run.

After two weeks, Findekáno was forced to admit that he was no woodsman. The days had wound into one another, and despite his best efforts, he was still many miles from the pass that his father’s host had marched through to reach the lake. He did not dare leave the forest and follow the same trail he had taken that first time - by now, surely, his people were searching for him, and even if he was not found by one of them he ran the risk of being spotted by orcs or (worst of all, by his reckoning) one of the Fëanárian loyalists, if not his cousins themselves. At least he had seen no sign of Tyelkormo since that first day, and he began to hope that he had truly gotten away with his theft, though he would be hard-pressed to return the food that he had taken. There were no streams or rivers here that he had found, and he had wasted two days chasing after skittish deer; in the end, he was forced to rely entirely on the rations he had taken from the quick-tempered _ nér _. 

And they were near to running out.

“What am I _ doing? _” he asked himself one evening, huddled below the spreading branches of a hospitable hawthorn. It was raining, and he was more damp than dry, but at least he was not soaked through and shivering. 

_ You are going after Russandol, _he answered himself, and scoffed. It was not the first time he had let this imagined debate play out. 

_ But why? What does it matter now? It has been Valar only know how long since his capture. He is almost surely dead. _

_ He is _ not _ dead. You saw, you felt him. That vision of the throne room of Moringotto - _

_ \- which might have been an illusion, a trap set by the Enemy to ensnare any who seek to save him! Macalaurë is right to forbid any attempt at this impossible, foolish deed! _

_ But I cannot _ leave _ him there without knowing the truth! He is my husband, and _ I _ do not abandon my family to torment and death. _

_ And yet _ he _ abandoned _ you _ all too easily. _

Tears pricked at Findekáno’s eyes; he drew his knees up under his chin and rested his folded arms over them and laid his head down. The sobs that had been building in his chest for these uncounted days were bitter and hot and sick; he did not wish to weep in the woods and give himself away by the sound of his grief and anger, and so he had forced them back time and time again. But now, with the rain and the darkness of night and the tree all shielding him, there was nothing to stop him, and so he at last broke down and wept. He wept for his grandfather, for his mother in distant Aman, for the Teleri whose blood had stained his blade and made him a kinslayer, for Elenwë and all the others lost to the Ice, for Itarillë who was fated now to grow up with a father twisted by grief, for Arakáno dead by the shores of the sea, for - 

_ \- ai, Ilúvatar, Herunúmen, Russandol! _

There was a high, keening cry in the air about the rowan, like a horrible shriek from a dying animal. He realized it was coming from _ him _, and it only spurred him on to greater weeping. 

_ I have abandoned my people, my station, my duties, my _ family _ , all for what? A love I cannot know is returned! I am a traitor twice over now, once for Alqualondë when I led my host to damnation and once for this foolish, _ useless _ quest that I have undertaken solely for my own benefit! It has been long enough now that my father will notice my absence, perhaps he thinks I am dead and devoured by some ravenous _ rá _ or _ morco _ , perhaps he believes me a captive of the Enemy! _

Every new thought drove him deeper into misery, leaving him cold from his tears and from his guilt. _ I _ cannot _ return like this, _ he realized, and what little hope he had left withered and died. _ Better that I wander forever, or fall to my untimely death, or slay myself! Better that I, too, be held in thrall in Angamando! What have I _ done _ ? What manner of prince abandons his people in the name of selfish desire? And what else _ can _ I do and still keep my marriage-vow? I have become a traitor and an apostate, I cannot violate yet another sacred trust! _

_ I am a disgrace, I am the least of my father’s children, I am the least of my whole Valardamned _ House! _ I ought to be executed for my crimes. I ought - I ought - _

What was left of his will broke apart, and he lost himself to his tears.

* * *

He did not know how long he spent beneath the hawthorn tree, only that the sun rose and set and rose and set in an endless cycle of light-dark-light-dark while he lay on his side and thought of nothing but what was lost. He did not stir, did not rise, even to seek out water or food; he was consumed by grief and by misery. Every waking thought was of the dead, and every dream was of Russandol lying in his arms, bleeding and as cold as a corpse. He wept, and wept, and wept still more, until there were no more tears left to shed for his family or his victims or himself, and the hawthorn sheltered him as the world passed him by.

At last, one morning when the sun was bright enough to pierce through the thick shield that the tree had woven about him, Findekáno opened his eyes. He groaned, and tried to sit up, and his arms gave out from beneath him and sent him slamming into the leaves and the soft earth. His head ached, and his throat was dry and rasping, and for a long while all he could do was roll onto his back and stare up at the branches above him. Where their leaves had been green, now they were a vivid scarlet, and there were red berries dotting in between them.

_ Haws, _ he thought, and frowned at the presence of such a word in a mind long devoid of reason. _ Not true berries, and edible enough, if you are a squirrel. _ He reached up with one hand, brown fingers outstretched; he did not reach the lowest branch. 

_ How long have I been here? _ he asked himself, and was shocked to get an answer. It was a slow, pondrous presence, imprecise and solid both, and yet it touched his mind nonetheless. It spoke, or nearly spoke, in sensation and green and red, in thirst and touch and the feel of water on leaf and bark.

“You?” he said aloud, turning to the trunk of the hawthorn tree, and he was given a disconcerting sensation of hairs on the back of his neck standing up in response that he supposed was a near thing to ‘yes’. He closed his eyes again and tried at once to focus on what he was told and to open his mind even further, and as he drifted off into the space between his own thought and whatever it was that the hawthorn offered, he began to form a vague picture of what he was being told. 

He had been curled up in a place that the tree could feel him against its roots for some sixty light-dark cycles - he had been calling them _ days _ but they were at once shorter and longer than the true days of the Trees - while the air grew colder and the haws grew ripe and the leaves on all but the spruces turned crimson and gold and brown. He had tried to ask why such changes were happening, remembering suddenly that Tyelkormo had spoken of the world going cold in a few months; the hawthorn could only tell him that it knew a long sleep was coming, and that the _ Kementári _ had told it that it would change, and dream, and awaken again to warmth and sunlight. 

_ I suppose if Yavanna spoke thusly to her beloved forests, Oromë might have warned the beasts, _ Findekáno thought. _ That might be how Tyelkormo knew, unless these cycles of cold were the truth of the world even under stars. _ He shivered - it had not occurred to him that the very air itself might, devoid of Ice or darkness, turn frigid - but smiled faintly at the tree and did his best to open himself to his gratitude, strange though it must surely be to the child of earth. Once that was done, he got to his knees to take stock of his pack only to be stopped by a sharp pang of - 

\- _ hunger? _

_ Oh. _ He grimaced, and glanced down at himself, frame already unnaturally slight. He had been trim before, but the Ice had nearly starved him, and now he was barely eating yet again. _ I will be skin and bone and nothing else before I see this quest to fruition, _ he thought wryly, _ unless… _

He drew his pack close to him, opened it, and straightened up again, glancing back at the hawthorn. _ May I - I do not know how to put this politely, or intelligibly at all, I… _ His thought trailed off, and he frowned and did his best to send a sensation of fruit being plucked from many branches. _ I would not take from you without permission. _

There was a long silence, perhaps as the tree weighed what it was he was asking, and then the same eerie twinges dancing along neck and shoulders as the first time, indicating - hopefully - another yes. And then the presence in his mind was gone, as suddenly as it had come, and he was alone with his thoughts once more. 

He got up into a low crouch and began to gather the haws from the lowest branches. It was a mindless task, interrupted only by an occasional pause in which he ate one or two of the small red fruits at a time; before he knew it, every empty space in his pack was filled with them, and he was staring at hands stained scarlet with their juice.

_ What am I doing? _ he asked himself, and he knew he had done that much before.

_ Going after Russandol, obviously. _

_ But - really? _ He sat down beside his pack, frowning, staring at the leaves that had fallen to earth. _ Really? Even now? _

_ Yes, even now - I can’t just leave him there! _

_ But - but what if - what if he is _ dead, _ what if he does not love you, what if you cannot find him, what if you are slain or yourself caught? _

_ I have to do it, _ he answered, and found that in the aftermath of endless weeping and despair was cold resolve. _ I follow after him, I am his inverse and his shadow. _

_ What if he is dead? _ he thought, staring at his hands stained red.

_ Then I shall bring his body home. _

_ What if I cannot find him? _

_ Then I shall not leave Angamando, I shall search and spy and never cease to seek for him. _

_ What if I am caught? _

_ It is easier to find a prisoner when you are yourself imprisoned. _

_ What if - _

His breath caught in his throat, and the all-too-familiar tears pricked at the edges of his eyes. He knew what it was that held him back, what it was he feared.

_ What if he does not love me? What if - what if all I have done, all this death and woe that _ I _ caused to our people in the name of my wretched heart - what if it means nothing to him? _

He had no easy answer for that. For a moment, the red on his hands was the red of blood, and he was standing on the docks of Alqualondë in the shadow of death, and anger flared deep within him. _ My choices were my own _ , he told himself, though he was not sure he believed it. _ I must take responsibility for that. Even if - even if he cares nothing for me, even if he feels nothing? I am still a Kinslayer. _

He swallowed hard and wiped his hands on his breeches. 

“If he does not love me, still I would bring him out of bondage,” he said quietly. “To heal the rift between our houses, and to hope for peace in the wake of the tragedy I have plunged us into.”

He shut his pack, checking that his harp was still secured, and brushed dirt and leaves from his hair and clothes.

“I must do this,” he said. “I have no choice.” As he spoke, his resolve settled into him, turning wavering will into something deeper than mere emotion and stronger even than steel.

_ I have no choice. _

* * *

Findekáno stayed in the shadow of the hawthorn for two more weeks. It was too long, and he knew it, but he could not afford to move any faster. His two-month fast had left him weak, and shaking, and for the first few days he could barely stand, let alone think of scaling trees and mountains in search of his husband. He found a stream behind his unintentional shelter, and crawled to it, and drank his fill more than once; he managed to fish on the third day and catch several perch. These he baked over a fire made of dried twigs that fell from the ever-generous tree, and once he had eaten them he felt more like himself. 

The next morning, he rose early and strung his stolen bow and began to practice with it. After a few hours of shooting at leaves, he was familiar enough with the draw weight to try for a real target, and that night he dined on haphazardly roasted rabbit that was at once half-raw and mostly charred ash. He was not much of a hunter, but he could skin and butcher a kill as well as his siblings could, and while he was not much of a cook, he needed the fat and the protein more than anything. Beyond that, it was a test of skill - Findekáno reasoned that if he could shoot a running rabbit through the eye, he could probably kill any orcs that he came upon in the mountains. _ Not that it will help me much, if I am surrounded, _ he thought, _ but if I am surrounded I would be better off slaying myself. _ His early bravado had dimmed - while he knew that he could theoretically find Russandol from within Angamando, and that imprisonment did not always mean confinement, he also knew that as crown prince he was too valuable to let Moringotto have him. _ I have a knife, _ he thought grimly. _ I have several knives - I can take my own life if I must. _

He spent the last of his days by the hawthorn working to rebuild his strength. He stretched, and took short walks that turned to long walks that turned to awkward stumbling sprints, and climbed every tree he could find, and practiced for hours on end with the bow. Each day he grew steadier, surer; he knew that he was very nearly to where he had been when he left. At last, when he could run for what he hoped was a furlong and not pause and gasp for breath, he knew he could linger no longer. _Russandol needs me, _he told himself, and so on that final morning he rose and gathered enough haws to fill every crevice of his pack and prepared to leave at last. He sharpened the knife in his pouch on a suitable whetstone substitute he had found in the stream - not perfect, not even truly good, but usable in a pinch - and brushed the worst of the mud from his cloak.

At last, he turned to the hawthorn tree, reaching out and putting a hand on its rough bole.

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it. “I think I would have been lost without your kindness.” He felt the same odd sensation as before, brushing against his mind for a moment, and then it was gone. The tree had answered, and seemed pleased with him, and now that his dues had been paid, it was time to go. Findekáno got to his feet. His pack was in his hand; he slung it over his shoulders and stepped out into the forest proper. 

The first thing he did was climb yet another tree - a towering pine that he had practiced on many times over the past days. Today, he climbed as high as he could - he needed to find where he was in relation to the mountains and the pass, so he might continue to make his way north - and was once again greeted by the breathtaking sight of the woods stretching out almost to the lake. Before, it had been unbroken green before him, but now the leaves were yellow and scarlet and brown and red, and their beauty was striking. Only the pines and spruces were still themselves, and he wondered if they would remain thusly through the coming cold. 

The mountains were behind him, very nearly in a straight line, and he guessed he had perhaps three more days’ worth of travel before he reached them. His heart ached as he let himself look back one final time at the far shore of Misrim, where he could see the tents and primitive structures that his own people had built, and he wondered if even now they waited for him in vain, if they knew of the long months of cold that the trees and the beasts seemed to warn against.

_ I cannot go back, _ he told himself sternly, and he forced down the tears that rose to his eyes. _ I cannot. They will survive. They will endure. I cannot return without trying to free him. _His words were almost unconvincing, but in the end he climbed back down from the pine, thanked it, and set off in a direction that was very near to true north.

The next days passed easily enough. He had to climb often, to make sure that the twisted route he was forced to take between trees and bushes did not set him too far off course, and twice he had to ford streams that were very nearly rivers and left him drenched and soaking. But his pack survived, held above his head, and so he was not dismayed, though he spent those two nights shivering before weak fires. The nights were growing colder, and the colorful leaves were falling to the earth and breaking apart. It occurred to Findekáno suddenly that they were _ dying, _ like a plant that had been poorly cared for - would everything die, in the coming cold? The thought chilled him very nearly to the bone, bringing back memories of bodies frozen in place as they walked through the snow to an unknown end.

_ No, _ he told himself. _ Yavanna would not do such a thing. Neither would Oromë. _

_ Would they? _

But such matters were beyond his concern. He was neither a Vala nor a Maia. He could do nothing save watch, and survive, and search.

_ So search I will. _

Five days since leaving the hawthorn tree, he found the woods beginning to thin out, and he realized he was climbing steadily uphill. First, the shrubs and low ground cover were gone, replaced by grass that was pale and yellow-green; next, after some hours of marching, Findekáno noticed that the oaks and beeches and rowans were giving way to their spine-leaved brethren, and even these grew further apart. At last, there were none of even these, and he found himself horribly exposed on slopes lit by a setting sun. He could see grasses and the very rare scrubby bush stretching on for some miles, ever upward and ever more thin. And beyond them, high and formidable, were bare shelves of rock that stretched into perilous peaks and narrow cliffs.

He had come, at last, to the mountains.


	3. Where I Can't Follow

_ And to think I was certain the first mountain range was as bad as it could get. _

Findekáno was huddled against a cliff-face, his cloak drawn up about him, shivering in the cold. It was raining, a dreary, icy rain that seemed to strip the warmth and vigor from his bones and left him exhausted in its wake. Beyond the ledge he sat on, just inches from his battered boots, was a sheer drop through slick black emptiness that was sure to end on jagged spears of stone some countless fathoms below. He did not know how long he had been climbing - he had lost count of the days long before he reached these peaks - and he did not truly know where he meant to go. It had been a struggle to reach this height, where a thin and treacherous series of ledges formed a semblance of a path high above the bare earth, and now that he was here he knew he had no choice but to go forward to whatever end awaited him.

The mountains that had bordered Misrim were not Thangorodrim, and he had known that, but it had still been disheartening to scale them, get lost, and find his way through what he had hoped was the pass his father’s host had used only to emerge in the midst of a strange woodland. He had realized in dismay that there were two passes rather than only one, and cursed himself for not examining the crude maps that Aikanáro had made of the countryside, but there was no point in going back merely for a glance at a sketch on hastily crafted parchment. He had decided to risk the woodland, as he could see another smudge of mountains beyond it. These had been taller, grimmer, and more desolate, and he knew as he looked upon them that they were his mark. 

Unlike the forests he had spent far too much time in, the woodland between Misrim and the hells of iron did not lend itself easily to getting lost. In all the endless days he spent there, Findekáno did not sleep for more than a handful of hours, never daring to rest for long or even to take his pack from his shoulders. While there was game to be found, it was wary and watchful and not worth the effort to catch. The trees were silent, though when he woke from what slumber he allowed himself he was often ensconced by dead leaves and branches as if they meant to shield him from prying eyes. What they feared would find him, though, was a mystery. He saw no orcs, heard no sign of any enemy, and yet could not shake the suspicion that he was watched. 

At the very least, he had not starved - his fishing-line had come in handy again, and he had managed to catch several strange limbless creatures who resembled eels more than the perch and pike he was accustomed to. They had frightened him at first, as they had no true mouths, only gaping maws of hooked teeth, but when he ate one and was not made sick, he caught several in succession and cooked them over furtive fires, and the meat sustained him and allowed him to preserve the precious haws he had gathered.

The days had wound on, and the air had grown colder, and colder still, until he was forced to drape himself in every layer of clothing he had brought to stay warm. The leaves fell from the trees, leaving him with fewer and fewer places to hide, and the ground froze and coated every branch and blade of dead grass with pale frost that crunched under his boots, and the streams iced over and the game vanished entirely save for the occasional bird that flew high overhead. Still unwilling to eat more of his foraged provisions than absolutely necessary, he dug up roots and tubers from the cold and crumbling earth and chewed pine sap to stave off pangs of hunger. And always, always, he made his way north, guided by the stars he glimpsed through bare and silent trees and by his own dumb luck. 

It was only when he had emerged from these strange and silent woods and reached the grim grey peaks that he knew lined Moringotto’s stronghold that he realized how fortunate he had been. Had he emerged where he had meant to, he would have been forced to cross the Anfauglith and approach the front gates with nothing to hide him from the enemy, and he would have almost certainly been caught unawares or simply overpowered and dragged beyond the gates. His utter lack of skill as a woodsman had allowed him to climb up into the mountains themselves, and so come at Angamando from the side, and from above.

That had been his goal, for however long he had wandered - upward, and eastward, or as near to eastward as he could get. It had not been an easy journey. Many times he was forced to spend hours clinging to cracks in the cliffs and peaks as if he were a spider, crawling sideways and bracing freezing fingers and toes against the unforgiving rock. Often he had to leap from one jagged outcropping of stone to another, and once he slipped and barely managed to catch himself and keep from falling. His hands were bloodied and raw, each day slicing open on some new unseen hazard, and as they healed they did not scar, leaving new skin vulnerable to yet more pain. He had bound his palms up in scraps of his tunic, but this did not help much save to keep dirt and dust and grime from the wounds. 

All that had led to where he sat now, waiting out the night and the storm, clutching his pack to his chest while he tried not to weep. It was bitterly cold, though not the bone-freezing agony of the Ice; he supposed that either he had lost the ability to feel anything save mild discomfort or else that even Moringotto could not stand such temperatures. He hoped it was the latter. The idea that he had been permanently damaged in some way by his journey in the dark chilled him more or less to the bone. 

Eventually, the night passed, though the storm did not. When the Sun rose, Findekáno was greeted with wave upon wave of rain, falling over the mountains and washing snow and ash and grime down from the peaks to the crevices and winding paths. He drew his cloak over his head, braced himself between two boulders, and tried to ignore the water and slime that soaked through the cloth and streamed down the back of his neck. 

_ I think I might hate this, _ he thought to himself, and then flinched when half-frozen mud and snow dripped under the cowl of his cloak and down his chest. _ No, _ he amended, _ I do in fact hate this. I hate it quite a lot. _

Thinking of his family in Misrim was no better - by now, the cold that the trees had spoken of had surely come, and they would be left to survive by frigid shores once again. He tried to do what he had done on the Ice, letting his thoughts drift back to Valannor and the warmth of the Trees, but even his memories seemed grim and miserable, dwelling on the endless strife between his family’s houses rather than the bright days spent in Russandol’s arms. After the sixth attempt to lose himself in a waking dream of the day he had confessed his love, Findekáno realized it was worse than hopeless.

_ If I manage to forget where I am, _ he thought, _ it will probably be because I am trapped in some sort of nightmare or fell illusion. _ No sooner had he come to that conclusion than he shuddered and did his best to force it from his mind - _ I do not want to set myself up for that hell. I faced enough of that on the Ice. _

In the absence of anything save the weight of reality, he did the only thing he could do, which was walk, and endure. The haws he had gathered had been exhausted long ago - he did not know how long he had wandered in these mountains, but it had been long enough for him to eat every scrap of food he had scavenged or stolen. He knew he would grow even thinner than before, and grimaced at the thought of what he would look like if he ever made it back to the lake. None of them had fat to spare after their decades of half-frozen trudging, but his recently-tailored tunics were already loose and hanging off of him. Itarillë and Artaresto had done the work as practice, but he did not think he could blame poor seamwork for the awkward fit. He tightened his belt, and tied his tunic into knots, and cut strips of bandage from his harp’s awkward holdings to fasten his leggings into place above his boots, and as the days wore on he wished he had brought a needle and thread and could have re-tailored his clothes in the early hours when it was light enough to stitch by but too dark to follow the winding paths. 

It was after a particularly fitful few hours of near-sleep that Findekáno woke to the sudden thought that while he didn’t have a needle, he _ did _ have a hook and a coil of line. He fished both out of his pack, and then drew out the knife from his satchel; the inferior metal of the hook gave easily to the blade, and he was able to trim off the barbed ending before straightening the curved tool out into something resembling a serviceable needle. The line was hardier than thread, but he supposed that was well enough, as he was in hardy and harsh lands. Not for the first time, he was at once annoyed and glad that in the long-ago haste of his coupling with Russandol, he had been left with his husband’s breeches; it was easy to wear them over all else. Out of habit, he asked Vairë for her blessing, slipped the line through the small hole pierced in the end of the hook, and did his best to begin.

His tailoring was slapdash and hasty and counter to all his lessons, not least because it was far too cold and risky to strip out of every layer he had piled on. In the end, he decided to re-seam each leg on the outside rather than within, which led to him pulling every bit of spare leather into awkward handfuls on the outer edges of his legs and laying down rows of too-large straight stitches to tack them in place. _ My cousin Carnistir would murder me, _ he thought, remembering the other _ nér _ and his embroidery hoops and nearly-invisible stitches on court robes and cloaks and shirts, _ but I cannot afford to take days to do this, and I only have so much line. _

He lost a day to his efforts, but when they were done, he was grateful, for he no longer felt as if his breeches would fall off at the slightest provocation. The waistband was the hardest, drawn tight by means of an unwieldy half-formed knot that was tied with spare bowstring and stitched through with the very last of the line until it was more or less immovable; it sat on the edge of his hip so it would not press into his back when he rested. 

_ Good, _ Findekáno thought when it was finished and he rose to his feet and took a few experimental steps. _ It is not ideal, but I can move freely, and I will not lose a layer to a jump or a lunge. _

After that, he lost himself in endless days again, drifting in and out of himself until it became clear he could scarcely tell dream from waking perception. He trudged onward, unthinking, automatic, and did not let the fog that had claimed his mind stop him. More than once he nearly wandered right off a precipice, or slipped and almost fell from a sheer cliff; he was not shaken, or frightened, or alarmed. Fear was beyond him, awareness was beyond him, love was beyond him. Yet more days slid over him, light and dark and light and dark again, and he realized eventually that he had quite forgotten why he had come here, or indeed, if he had ever been anywhere else. 

_ I ought to stop walking, _ he thought one day, and it seemed like a fine idea. _ Stop, and sit down, and rest, and - _

“Findekáno?” a thin voice called, echoing over the rocks and empty spaces.

He paused, and blinked, and blinked a second time. The mist before him rolled, and curled in on itself, and then drew back to reveal someone standing on the path before him. It was a _ wendë _ , a young _ nís _, not yet at her majority. She had pale golden hair, and wore a tattered blue gown, and something in him knew her. 

“Findekáno!” she called again, and he frowned, and swallowed, and opened his mouth. _ I know you, _ he thought, clear certainty slicing through the grey fog in his mind, and he tried to speak.

_ I - Itarillë? _ he thought, and as he said her name, pieces of the past began to slide into place behind it. _ Itarillë, my brother’s daughter - I have a brother - I had two - my name is - _

“You left us!” she cried, and suddenly she was glaring at him. “You left us to the cold!”

Guilt pierced him through like a burning dart, and he staggered back from her. 

_ I - I didn’t - I _ had _ to _, he answered, but she shook her head, and there were tears in her eyes as he recovered himself and began to walk toward her.

“Atya is dead!” she said. “And Alatya, and _atarnésa_ Írissë, and all of them!”

His blood turned to ice in his veins, and he froze, shivering. 

“They froze,” Itarillë said darkly, eyes burning. “They would have lived if _ you’d _ been there.”

_ I - I couldn’t _ , he thought, and suddenly he remembered what it was he had left them for, and the shame of it threatened to drive him to his knees. _ Findekáno. My name is Findekáno. His is Russandol. Is he worth the lives of my family? _

“You could have,” she said scornfully as if in response to him, and turned on her heel and began to walk back into the mists. “I came to find you, but you couldn’t save them. You can’t save _ anyone. _”

_ Wait! _ he thought, and began to follow her. She shook her head, and did not turn around.

He tried and failed to cry aloud, and staggered after her. Only silence answered him, and the sound of her bare feet on the rock path. She walked slowly, but somehow was always just out of his reach as he came down the path. 

_ Itarillë _ , Findekáno thought, _ please - please, I am sorry, I am - ! _

His niece ignored him, if she had heard him at all, and when the path forked, she turned to the right and did not look back. He dashed after her, reaching for her, and then the edge of his other sleeve caught on something and yanked him back. The air cleared; his heart pounded. He was staring into empty space. 

_ Ausa_? he realized, and flinched back from the edge. _ She was never there at all. _ Ercamando. Muk _ . _ He had reached out to catch hold of her wrist, to plead with her to stay as she turned right - 

\- only she had vanished into the air, and when he lunged for her he nearly plunged headlong over the side of the path he trod along; looking down at his feet, he saw that there was no rightward fork. 

_ I almost died, _ he thought, and shivered. _ My sleeve - _ he glanced over his shoulder and saw that it was pinned between two protruding rocks, caught in a deep cleft - _ it caught, and I - I would have fallen - oh, Eru, Manwë, á ercat… _

He yanked his arm free of the rocks, staggered backward, and then leaned over the edge of the cliff and vomited bile.

_I am going mad, _ Findekáno thought, and the realization was sobering. _ I am going mad - I _ saw _ her, clear as day - I _ heard _ her, she was right in front of me! _

_ No, _ he told himself. _ You know of _ ausar _ , you know Artaresto saw one on the Ice, you heard them calling to you there in the darkness and the howling wind. It was only one of them. _

_ Unless it wasn’t. _

_ Unless someone knows I am here, and is weaving illusion around me that I might die. _

A chill crept up over him, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. 

_ I forgot who I was. I forgot for - for Eru knows how long. I only remembered when I saw her. If - if it is not an _ ausa, _ then - then someone is - _

_ \- someone wants me dead. _

He swallowed hard, shivering, and drew back from the cliff’s edge. _ Don’t be foolish, _ he told himself. _ You have no proof that anyone knows you’re here. None at all. _ He folded his arms across his chest to ward off the chill, wondering how it was that he could be wearing every piece of clothing he’d brought and still be cold when there was no snow and no bite to the air. _ It was only an _ ausa, _ it was not real. _ He looked out around where he stood, at the bare mountains and the desolate emptiness, and shivered again. _ Only an _ausa.

Findekáno sighed. _ I am in no condition to continue on today. I need to sit, and to clear my head. _ He looked down at the bend in the path, at the sharp curve and short walkway. _ I do not want to sit here, not when I nearly died where I stand. _ Glancing around yielded something better - to the right was a dizzying drop, but directly ahead of him, a short leap away, was a wide flat ledge with several boulders scattered across it. On its other edge was a sloping jumble of sharp-edged rocks, and then another ledge, this one flush against a high peak. It would be plenty of room, not merely to sit but even to lie down, shielded from any prying eyes by the rocks, and far enough from the heights and the air that he might truly rest. All he needed to do was make the leap from where he stood to the other side. 

_ I have made greater leaps, both here and back home, _ he thought, and almost laughed at himself for calling Valannor home even now. He backed up - there were a few ells’ worth of nearly-straight path behind him, smooth and safe enough that he might take them at a run - and steeled himself, and took a deep breath, and darted forward. The distance to the edge shrank by the second, each step carrying him further, and then, in a blur, he leapt - 

\- his feet slammed into the flat stone of the wide ledge, and he let out the breath he’d taken all at once, and he staggered forward a few steps and crashed to his hands and knees. It was the fastest he had moved in perhaps months, and as his heart pounded he slipped his pack from his shoulders and he let himself collapse onto the stone. He lay there, insensate, until the world had ceased to spin around him and the cold reminded him that he was still in the mountains, far from his family.

_ My family, _ Findekáno thought, and nearly retched again. _ No. No. They are alive. They are safe. _ Ausar _ lie, and cloud the mind. They are alive. They must be alive. _

His hands were shaking, and he sighed again and got back up, moving to sit on one of the many boulders. He pulled his pack close to his boots, and looked around at the ledge, and wondered what in Arda he would be able to do to calm himself. _ I need to sleep, _ he thought, and laughed nervously. _ How am I going to sleep? I nearly _ died, _ I saw my niece as an _ ausa, _ what can I _ possibly _ do to calm myself? _ The wind picked up, tugging at hair and cloak and the flap of his pack, and he glanced down at all he had carried with him. His eyes fell on his harp - almost forgotten, preserved through cold and rain and muck and misery - and then flicked back down to his shaking hands, and again, he knew what to do. 

The harp came free of its bindings easily - shockingly easily, when they had held against so much - and soon it was in Findekáno’s lap, and his fingers were roaming over the polished wood, examining it for cracks and chips. Miraculously, it had held as one piece and had not even warped, though when he tested its strings he found it horribly out of tune. _ That won’t do, _ he thought, and when he tested the tuning pegs he found them holding in place, and almost smiled in spite of himself. He was no bard, as Macalaurë was, though he had a fair ear for the proper tones, and so it was not long until the awkward, ugly twangs turned to light, open-stringed arpeggiated chords beneath his fingers. 

It felt good, to _ do _something that was not wandering or climbing, to set his hands to making music rather than clinging to rock and stripping fingernail from flesh. For a moment, he feared discovery - surely the sound of a song would not be ignored by orcs as gasps and grunts might be - but the relief and simple pleasure of the instrument in his lap overruled his anxiety, and he picked up the harp and set it against his shoulder and began to play.

The tune was simple, and came to him unbidden - a light, easy ballad that told of the mingling of the Treelight, long ago in the bliss of Aman. Macalaurë had written it, in happier days, and it had been greatly beloved both by his family and by his people at large; he had not known he remembered it. He ran over the verses in his mind, joined by memory of all they described - flowers, trees, finches, the stars of the Elentári - and suddenly he realized that he was doing more than silently recounting. A sound, plaintive and hopeful and lilting, was curling about him, filling the air, drifting over the rocks and chasms. He gasped, and flinched, and stopped playing; the sound stopped with him. For a moment, he frowned and puzzled over this - it was surely some sort of trick, or yet another _ ausa _ , and yet it did not _ sound _ like an _ ausa _ did. Suddenly, he chuckled aloud, and shook his head - it had been his own voice, surely, echoing back at him, He had been singing. It had been so long since he had spoken aloud, and longer still since he had sung, that he had forgotten what it sounded like.

A brief test confirmed that the noise had indeed come from him, that it was him matching the harp in note and tone, and when he was satisfied that orcs would not come pouring out of some secret hideaway, he resumed his song. His voice was quavering, and harsh, and made all manner of dreadful sounds in its attempts to return to form, and yet he could not stop. Even the dim fear of capture or death vanished in the warm joy of the melody. He sang the first verse, and then the second, and then the third - 

\- there was another sound, intruding on the harp and on his voice. It was hoarse, and hard-edged, and resembled the cry of a bird more than anything else. It struggled, and faded, and gave out more than once, as if it was trying and failing to follow the melody. 

Findekáno flinched violently, almost dropping his harp. The song was forgotten; terror flooded him, and left him gasping and breathless. _ I am caught, _ he thought frantically, one hand delving into his satchel to seek for his knife. _ That was surely an orc’s voice. I am caught, and I will die, and I cannot die - _

\- _ wait. Was - was that orc _ singing _ with me? _

He thought back over the last few seconds, recalling how yes, the squawking, grating sound had paused when he paused and continued when he continued. As if it were, in truth, trying to sing with him. As if it knew the melody.

No orc would know that melody. 

Findekáno’s heart was pounding again, though now he was not afraid. Something had seized him, some wild and frenetic energy; the harp slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground and he had already forgotten it. He ran to the inner side of the ledge, stopping short of the knife-edged rocks that would have torn him to shreds, frantically scanning the empty space. Every second that passed drove him to look higher, higher; nothing, and no one. 

_ Maybe I have gone mad, _ he thought, and laughed, and it was high and shrill. _ Maybe there is nothing there. _

“Russandol!” he cried, half-hysterical, brimming with doubt. His eyes drifted up, up, up - 

\- _ no, _he thought, and his stomach dropped out from under him.

High above his head was a pale blot. A bone-white figure. 

A figure that called out to him, in a frightful voice, answering him.

“_ Findekáno_!”

He had thought, during the endless days and days of wandering, that he was prepared to face whatever awaited him when he found his husband. He had seen deprivation and desperate agony after desperate agony on the Ice, and he had reassured himself that surely, _ surely, _ Russandol could not be worse off than those who suffocated because the linings of their lungs froze and left them choking on air.

Findekáno knew, as he stood on that ledge, that he had been wrong.

At least those poor souls who perished in the darkness had _ died. _

What he saw hanging on the cliff before him was misery, plain and simple. If he had not been sharp-eyed and somehow in possession of his wits, he would have thought it was a mutilated corpse or a half-butchered carcass that dangled from the mountain by one pitiful limb; the fact that it was not filled him with a sick horror that left him retching on bile and his own saliva. Russandol was painfully thin, every bone standing out from him like some kind of grotesque anatomical model. He was naked, and filthy, skin covered with scars and fresh cuts; what was miraculously not bleeding was bruised or chafed or peeling away in the aftermath of burns. His arm stretched out above him, pinning him to the cliff-face thanks to a single shackle of cruel iron, and the shoulder that it emerged from was a web of mottled black. His hair hung about him in a cloud of tangles and dirt and yet more blood, and his face - 

\- Findekáno caught his breath at last, swallowing a plaintive cry before it could escape his lips. He was not sure what had happened to Russandol’s face, only that it, too, was covered in blood and torn open, and though he saw what he hoped were eyes and nose and mouth he could not be sure. _ He - he sang with me, _ he told himself, trying to force some sort of reassurance. _ He sang with me, he must be _ capable _ of singing, unless - _

\- _ unless it was mind-to-mind, and I only thought I heard it aloud. _

That thought was too horrible to bear, and so he forced himself to ignore it. _ No, no, he spoke, somehow, somehow… _

He could see ribs expanding and contracting in bone-jarring, irregular patterns. Yet more bruises and lacerations dotted the skin that covered them, and Findekáno wondered if he had traveled all this time only to see Russandol suffocate thanks to a punctured lung, and that new terror made him retch a second time. _ I have to speak to him, _ he resolved, _ in case he dies, I have to, I have to! _

Caution, care, fear of discovery, fear of thralldom - all were forgotten, in his mad dash toward his husband. There were sharp-edged and jagged rocks that lay piled against the sheer rock, and he scrambled up over them, slicing his palms open and cutting deep into one shin, to come to yet another ledge. This one was wider, and lay flush against the base of the cliff, and Findekáno realized as he ran that there were no cracks or crevices that he could hope to cling to in his climb. It did not stop him from trying. He threw himself at the unforgiving rock, bloody fingers searching for something, anything. It was utterly useless, and his leap ended with him sliding back to earth. He did not care. Panic had seized him, had borne him forward; he was light-headed and giddy with terror and with fury and with keening, all-consuming agony. He tried again, again, again, leaping up only to be pulled down by inexorable gravity, and as he sought fruitlessly for a hold his nails splintered and cracked and tore from his fingertips to leave bright trails of red down the rock.

“_ Russandol! _ ” he cried, hot tears filling his eyes, but when his own voice echoed back at him from peak and valley he was suddenly aware of where he was and how much noise he had made. _ I shall be found, _ he thought suddenly, and as quickly as it had come, his frantic desperation was gone, replaced with freezing dread. _ I shall be found, I shall be caught, I shall be dragged to my doom and now I know what that looks like… _

Any energy he had left evaporated, and he found himself standing with one hand resting on sheer rock, scarlet blood beneath leaving evidence of his presence.

“Russo…” he murmured, hope evaporating as he realized the enormous weight of what he had to do, and he stared up at the pathetic figure hanging above him. 

_ I have failed, _ he thought bitterly, _ I have failed and what’s more I have failed while he yet lives, I am the worst husband and the worst _ nér _ who ever lived! _

_ No, _ a thought - a _ voice _ \- answered him. _ You are not real. _

He froze. _ I am caught, _ he thought, and then realized that the reply had not come from anywhere but his own mind. _ I have truly gone mad, _ he decided, _ I have imagined answers where there are none, the only one I permit to speak to me thusly is - _

_ \- is my husband? _

No more fear, suddenly, as he was pierced through with a spike of fierce joy. _ Russo? No, no, it cannot be him - I must try, I must… _

Slowly, carefully, tentatively, hardly daring to breathe, he delved within himself and sought out his marriage-bond. What he found stunned him. Gone was the slick, smooth, insurmountable barrier that lay dark as obsidian at the core of his _ fëa. _ In its place was - was nothing, was emptiness once more, as if he had not been wedded at all.

_ No, _ he thought, dismayed, _ no, no, I cannot - _ he _ cannot be, not after all this time! _ The quiet in his heart hung heavy over him, and grief welled up in his chest. _ I cannot be mad, _ he thought, though he could hardly deny the reality of this absence. _ I cannot be. _

He stood motionless at the base of the cliff, eyes closed, scouring himself for something he had missed. But all that he found was yet more stillness, and he plunged into it thoughtlessly. As he sank into it, drowning in himself, he realized that the very silence itself was teeming with _ something. _It was warm, and wary, almost, and half-formed emotions and sensations brushed against him. He felt as if he were drifting in the flooded ruins of his soul, and on all sides were broken pieces of what once had been.

Findekáno seized one such piece as it passed, catching it and clinging to it as if it were a thread of copper fire that hung in the air rather than a faint impulse. He drew it nearer to himself, feeling its warmth and wrapping it about his heart, and then it shifted and writhed and _ roused _ and - 

\- above him, Russandol gasped audibly, the sound ragged and horrifying. There was a frightful, lurching moment where something surged and shifted between them, and then - 

Warmth, and shock, and something tangible sparking between them. 

Contact, at long last.

Findekáno fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. For a long while, all he could do was sob, gasping and breathless, the world heaving beneath him with every heartbeat. _ Alive. He - you - alive, alive, oh thank Eru, thank all the Valar… _

A long silence from above, and then at last the same thin and distant voice as before. _ You aren’t real. _

Another sob broke through from his throat, and he bowed his head and found it pressed against the hand that clung to the cliff-face even now. 

_ No, _ he said, forcing himself to look back up at the horror he had found, _ no, I - I am, I _ am, _ I am no phantom, no shade, I - _

_ It is a good illusion, _ came the reply, _ and it… unexpected, but - no. _ There was no despair in the words, no fear, no sadness. It was as if Findekáno was being told that the Treelight made the sky blue by his tutor. Deep beneath the empty words, he could sense turmoil, sense confusion, sense raw burning agony, and yet all that Russandol gave him freely was blank acceptance.

“How?” he asked aloud, pushing himself to his feet. “How - how can I prove this is real? What can I do?” Vainly he sought a final time for something to cling to and climb, and once more his eyes told him that there was nothing between him and the other _ nér _ but smooth, unbroken stone.

_ Nothing, _ Russandol told him. _ There is nothing. _

“_ Please! _ ” he cried, and again the word echoed back at him over the desolate peaks. “There - there must be _ something _ ! I cannot _ leave _ you here!” _ And I cannot stay indefinitely, with no food and no water and only a little while, surely, before I am spotted… _

High overhead, the figure on the mountain shifted, and groaned, and he felt as if he had been pierced through with a dart of ice and wondered if Russandol had met his eyes. 

_ If… if you… real, _ his husband said, _ kill me. _

Findekáno’s stomach dropped out from under him, and he retched a third time and nearly spat up bile. _ No, _ he thought, _ no, I cannot - I _ will not, _ I - _

_ Real? _ Russandol asked. _ Kill me. Kill me. Get out. Nothing… no other help. _

The worst part, Findekáno thought as he stumbled backward in a daze of grief, was that he was right. There was no way to reach him, no ledges nearby. There was a rough outcropping some fifteen ells above him, where the rock at last grew jagged again near the top of the cliff, but beyond that…

_ I… I cannot free him, _ he realized, and felt the horror of it sink into his bones. _ I cannot. If I am to help him at all, I - I _ must _ slay him. _

“I cannot… I do not have a way,” he answered, but even as he spoke he remembered that he did. It sat with his abandoned pack and forgotten harp, on the lower ledge, held in place by bandages and pins. The bow, unused since he ventured into the mountains, still in its place on the outside of his pack. 

Tyelkormo’s bow. 

His own brother’s weapon. 

_ If I must do this, _ Findekáno thought, _ I will do it with beloved tools. _

He turned around numbly, and when he descended to the lower ledge and his gear he tripped and slid down the rocks and sliced the backs of his thighs open. He did not care. He barely felt it. 

His hands were shaking, and his heart felt as though it would burst. 

_ I am already a murderer, why in Arda is it worse this second time? _

_ Because you _ love _ him, you fool. It is not the same. _

Even as he stumbled toward the pack, he tried to tell himself that there was another way. His hands fumbled for the bow, and then when that lay on the ground he sought out the small leather pouch with the string, and even as his fingers closed around it he told himself that surely, _ surely _ , there had to be something he had missed. _ I - I will find a way out of this, _ he thought, and he was frantic and methodical at once. _ I will, I will, I must. _

Once the bow was strung, he knew he had no other choice. 

He was grim, and implacable, as he turned back to face the cliff, bow in one hand and arrow in the other. Now that he knew he could not escape this horrendous act, he was suddenly calm; every drop of sick horror had burned out of him. There was no way out, no path he might take to avoid this. _ I have to kill him. I must. _

The arrow was on the string, nocked and ready; he straightened up and prepared to draw it back. _ If I have to do this, _ he thought, _ and I have to, I will do my best not to miss. I am only a fair shot, and I am wrecked - there is a chance I might - I mustn’t, I _ cannot, _ if I strike him and injure him and do not kill him, he will be in greater agony than ever - I cannot miss, oh, Valar - _

_ \- Valar. _

He flinched, and sucked in air, and blinked back sudden tears. _ I - I might - I am an apostate, a kinslayer, they will not heed me, _ no one _ will heed me - but I have to _ try, _ I have no other _choice, _if I do not strike true with this arrow I might as well slay myself for the pain I have caused him_… 

Another breath, and he raised up the bow, and drew the arrow back and anchored it across the bridge of his nose.

“O King to whom all birds are dear,” he murmured breathlessly, barely conscious of what he was saying, “speed now this feathered shaft and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!” Beneath it was a wordless plea - _mercy, mercy, let me do this, let me make things right, please! _It was a feverish, desperate, hopeless request, and he knew, in his heart of hearts, that it would not be granted. _There is no mercy,_ he thought, and his hands were shaking, and he had to set his teeth and lock every joint in his arms and hope it would be enough. _They will not let me slay him, they will not give me this kindness, I am doomed, I am _doomed _and I will fail - !_

The silence that had deafened him and swallowed him was broken by a piercing cry, and something fast and brown and gold and _ immense _ was before him, and he loosed the arrow and it went wild. There was a sound like thunder, and the ground shook beneath his feet, and he looked up to the second ledge with wide eyes.

Before him, unblinking and silent and enormous, was one of Manwë’s Eagles. 

Against all odds, his prayer had been heard, and its answer was more than he could have dreamed of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artaresto's encounter with the ausa on the Ice is described in esmeraldablazingsky's fic "half sick of shadows" (/works/19850344); it is used with permission, and also that's a VERY good fic, I recommend it.


	4. When the Sun Shines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some fairly frank gore and body horror here. Up to now, the story's been pretty tame; it gets significantly less tame for this chapter.

Findekáno was speechless, and scarcely daring to believe his eyes. Surely, _ surely, _ he had truly lost his wits, surely this was another _ ausa, _ surely there was something, _ anything _, to explain what he was seeing. But as the moments passed, and the dust and rock settled, and the bird neither vanished nor changed, he realized that this was no shade or illusion.

“Sorontar,” he whispered, awestruck and half-dazed. He had seen the great eagles before, far-off and flying about Taniquetil in Valannor, and it was rumored that his uncle Fëanáro had once spoken with them; still, no scholar or loremaster knew aught of their lord and their mightiest warrior save his name. And it had to be Sorontar before him - no other of their race was so large. He staggered back, mouth falling open.

“No,” he gasped, voice raspy and unsure. “No, I - this can’t - !”

The eagle turned its head and fixed him with one massive eye the size of a serving-platter. _ And why not? _ it asked him, and Findekáno was nearly driven to his knees by the force of its thought. 

“I,” he said carefully, breathing heavily as he forced himself to rise to his full height again, “I am - I am doomed, I am _ cursed _, even! How - ?”

_ Would you rather I leave? _

“No!” Findekáno answered, sudden fear rising up out of his gut. “I - please, no.” 

Something shifted in the bird’s gaze, and he was forced to scramble backwards as an immense _ thing _ unfolded itself from Sorontar’s side. It stretched out and then angled itself down, and as it reached the lower ledge Findekáno realized it was a wing that was longer than the dining room in his parents’ home in Tirion, with feathers that nearly matched his own _ hröa _ in size. It lay across the whole of the ledge when it was completely outstretched, and draped over the precipice beyond into empty air.

_ Accept my gift, then, _ Sorontar said.

“What - what gift?”

The eagle shifted itself, fluffing its feathers as though it were any other bird. _ I shall bear you up to him, and then take you both far from this place, to wherever you will. _

Findekáno flinched back a second time, the sheer weight of what he was offered threatening to overwhelm him. 

“But - !” he began, and then shivered and coughed and tried again. “But I am - I am an apostate, a Kinslayer! How - how can I deserve this?”

_ Do I need a reason to be kind? _ Sorontor asked, and the eye that was fixed on Findekáno shifted, the iris contracting. _ Does anyone? _

“Oh,” the _ nér _ said dumbly. _ Take the gift, fool, _ a small part of him thought fiercely. _ Else you shall be stranded here and forced to try and shoot him again! _

_ Right, _he agreed, and began to assess how he might best climb atop the bird. Where he stood, the wing was above him, and even if he reached for it he would still fall short, but it neared the ground as it reached the edge of the precipice. Findekáno walked unsteadily alongside it, shock and disbelief haunting his steps, until it was low enough that he could climb up from the pale grey that had been his constant companion and grab hold of feathers rather than sheer rock. Immediately, he felt better than he had in days uncounted - he was warmer, and less dizzy, and when his boots were settled against skin and down and he was truly standing on the wing he felt better still. 

Sorontar was large enough that the climb to his back was an easy walk up a sloping ramp, and yet Findekáno still bent over and crawled. This was fortuitous - as he made his way up, his foot slipped on a small feather, and he would have lost his grip and fallen had his hands not been steady and sure. The eagle was solid, and alive, and quite different from the emptiness and dreary chill of the mountains, and it was tempting to curl up in the warmth of the creature and truly sleep, after so long. 

_ No, _ he told himself sternly. _ No. Russandol needs you, and once he is freed, both of you can sleep. _

_ If he does not die in my attempts to save him, that is. _

This thought anchored him, and he crawled up the last few feet until he was able at last to sit cross-legged in the massive hollow between the eagle’s wings. The great pinions and coverts had given way to flat feathers that lay close against Sorontar’s body, and they were warmer and softer than the wing had been. Findekáno reached out and stroked them absently, reveling in the softness and the sudden awareness of himself that simply being near one of Manwë’s beloved birds had seemed to give him. 

_ Are you settled? _ Sorontar asked. 

“Yes,” he answered.

_ I can barely feel you, _ the eagle told him. _ You had best hold on. _

“Hold on to what?” he asked, but Sorontar was already moving, great shifting and pivoting steps that shook his whole body. Findekáno slid sideways, swallowed several particularly filthy curses, and clung with both hands to all the feathers he could find before he was sent toppling off onto the ledge again. He found himself sprawled out over the eagle’s back, fingers and toes buried in down; he hoped the frantic hold did not hurt, even as he swung and shifted. If it did, Sorontar did not say, instead turning so that he was facing away from the cliffside and looking out over a wide chasm that was slightly to the right of where Russandol hung. His talons were locked on the edge of the shelf of rock that had seemed so wide when his passenger had stood on it, and he was unmoving save for his head, which turned at sharp angles and scanned the skies.

_ This isn’t so awful, _ Findekáno thought. He had managed to master the shifting steps, body rocking from side to side in mimicry of crawling, and had pushed himself up onto hands and knees so he could better move with the great bird. Now, he was peering out over the massive head and shoulders, looking out over the chasms and peaks and wondering how Sorontar would climb up the rocks. _ I should be able to keep my hold easily, it - _

The eagle leapt forward, diving down into fathom after fathom of empty air, wings angled back at its sides.

Findekáno screamed, and slid backward, pushed down the sloping back by the force of the sudden wind. He kept his wits somehow, however, and plunged his hands into soft down and held tight to it, and so even as he was lifted bodily from the back of the bird he did not fly off to be dashed against sharp rocks or fall to his death. Tears filled his eyes until he was forced to shut them, and he blindly clung to the feathers in his grasp and prayed to anyone who was listening that he would not lose his grip even for an eyeblink of time. He was no great stranger to falling - in Valannor, he had quite enjoyed cliff diving with Artanís and Írissë when they visited Olwë in Alqualondë - and yet this was something far beyond even the most daring heights outside that once-fair city.

Their fall seemed to last for an eternity, but it could not have been more than a handful of seconds, and it was ended when Sorontar let his wings snap out to their full span. He flapped them once, twice, thrice; his whole body flexed and curved in on itself to propel them both skyward again with immense speed. After another near-eternity, the eagle leveled out, wings stilling as he soared in high circles about the mountains. 

Findekáno swore, and swore a second time, and crawled back up to the hollow behind Sorontar’s neck where he had first made his seat. 

“Did you forget I was there?!” he demanded, but was stopped by a sudden shifting warmth in his thoughts that felt remarkably like -

“Are you _ laughing _ at me?” he cried, and the sensation only intensified.

_ I would not have let you fall, Finwion, _ Sorontar said, and he seemed distinctly pleased with himself. _ And besides, are you not called Astaldo? _

Findekáno spluttered indignantly, but was interrupted by a sharp bark of sound that soared up from his own gut. For a moment he was frightened, unsure, wondering if he needed to climb to the edge of a wing and cough up bile, and then he realized it was not anything so frightful, but was his own laughter.

He sat back on his heels, shoulders shaking, and could not help but laugh again, this time at himself; the sound seemed to grow and echo back at him despite the cold winds. He had not laughed in truth since before the Darkening, and he found he could not think of a reason to stop now that he had begun. So he let himself go, lying back in feathers the color of burnished bronze and finding nothing but absurdity in his current situation as Sorontar flew a wide circle about the cliffs.

At last, the mirth faded, and Findekáno sat back up, the echoes of a genuine smile on his lips. He felt warmer, and more _ real, _ anchored by the eagle and by the memory of his laughter, and even as he assessed himself he knew it was time.

“Take me to him,” he said, pitching his voice up to carry over the wind, and Sorontar did not answer but dipped one wing down to descend in a wide arc and come close to the sheer rock. It was nearly beautiful, in the high cold air, with the mist pooling around the paths and jagged spits of stone and the sun striking the mountains at just the right angle to set them sparkling; he wondered if such things existed in defiance of what Moringotto had done, threads of Song that had not yet been found and unraveled. Somehow, the thought gave him hope.

When they at last drew near to the cliffs, he pushed himself up onto hands and knees again. Sorontar made one final pass above and then dipped down into the space between the mountains where Findekáno had first spotted Russandol, outstretched wings nearly brushing stone on each side. The _ nér _ on his back scanned the cliffs, looking for some crevice or crack that he might slip off and cling to, or else a nearby perch that Sorontar might land on; he found nothing but slick stone all around the forlorn figure of his husband. From this position, Russandol looked even worse, though there was a frightful shift of ribs beneath thin skin every few seconds and so at least he had not died. 

“Make another pass!” he called to Sorontar. “I want another look at the cliff.” He had begun to guess at what needed to be done, but by now Russandol was nearly behind them, and the distance widened by the second.

_ I may be able to land beside him, and cling to the rock, _ Sorontar said. _ My talons are quite strong, and there are some of my smaller brethren who do thusly. _

He ascended again, making another wide loop; when they came down into the mountains proper this second time, Findekáno braced himself against an immense shoulder joint and forced himself to stand. 

“Stay nearby,” he said, taking several deep breaths. “I will not be long.”

_ What do you mean to do? _ the eagle asked, but he had already backed up along the width of Sorontar’s back and started to run. _ I made another leap earlier, _ he thought, breath coming faster, _ I will make this one. I just have to catch hold of the shackle. _

_ Wait, _ Sorontar said, _ you - ! _

Findekáno jumped, launching himself from the gap between neck and wing, legs treading empty air. He was aiming for the single shining point of metal below him, guessing that he would fall enough to grab it. One heartbeat passed, then another, and the rock drew closer and he was still too high, and his eyes were fixed on the shackle some four ells beneath his boots, and he looked up - 

\- he slammed face-first into the flat stone.

Before he could think, could breathe, he was falling again, only this time there was no Sorontar to catch him. His fingers sought fruitlessly, thoughtlessly, for a hold, any hold; somehow rock that was slick as glass shredded nail from skin and left bloodstains behind as proof he had been there. His head ached, and spun, and he could not catch his breath, and always, always, the descent - 

\- his left ankle slammed into something hard, bringing him to a jarring halt for long enough to feel burning, bone-crunching pain radiate up through his leg, and then his newfound foothold slipped away and he fell for half a heartbeat more until his right hand caught hold of that same something. He was abruptly turned onto his back, and he ceased to slide for a second time as his wrist gave a _ pop _ that left him seeing white behind his eyes. His fingers had grabbed onto cold, unyielding metal and held fast by some miracle, and he lay against the stone until the world had stopped spinning. At last, when he had caught his breath and got his bearings, he was greeted by pain, in his head and his face and his hands and his ankle. But this anchored him, kept his thoughts clear; he turned his head to see what he had managed to hang onto. When he realized what he had done he could not help but laugh again, thin and reedy and keening. He had found the shackle, and dangled from it now just as Russandol did to his right.

_ Russandol. _

Giddy joy and relief spurred him into motion, and he reached up with his left hand and caught the same shackle, turning his body around so he could brace his feet against the rock and straddle his husband. Twice, the pain flared in wrist and ankle, and he nearly slipped and lost his grip, but he forced himself to breathe and to hold on. _ If I fall, I will die. I cannot die. Not yet. Not after so long. _

He did not know how he managed to master the pain, but somehow he could; the blazing agony in his wrist seemed to fade into memory once he was eye-to-eye with the other _ nér. _But as he scanned his husband’s face, heart turned cold and sank down into his toes. 

Russandol was insensate, unmoving; he breathed, but he did nothing else. And now that he was near enough to touch, Findekáno could see the full extent of his injuries. His first impressions held true - every inch of the pale _ nér _was bruised, or bloody, or burned. Beyond that, the black mottling on his right shoulder had hidden obvious breaks in more than one bone, and there was a deep cut in his hip arcing down over the bone to the groin, and his face -

Findekáno breathed a sigh of relief. Russandol’s nose and mouth and eyes seemed more or less intact, though it seemed as if someone had taken a thin-bladed knife and carelessly drawn it across his once-elegant features. There was no rhyme or reason to the incisions, unless the object was to render his face nearly unrecognizable; if the open wounds pained him, he said nothing. 

“Russo,” Findekáno said quietly, and then louder. “Russandol.”

Nothing, not even a faint stirring from their bond.

“Damn,” he muttered, and hissed in a sharp breath as a fresh burst of pain came up from his ankle. He shifted his weight, forcing his right side to take the brunt of it, and let his left hand drop before bringing it up to Russandol’s face. He found he could not keep from caressing it, running brown fingertips over bone-white cheek and forehead; he traced the edges of the nearest cut and wished bitterly that he could heal it with a simple touch. _ The first time I have laid hands on him in Valar know how long, and it is like this… _

“I will not leave you,” he murmured gently, and leaned forward to press a kiss to his husband’s forehead. As he moved, Russandol shifted beneath him, eyes opening. At first they were cloudy and distant and half-aware, and then suddenly something sparked within them and they snapped into focus, pinning Findekáno in place with their achingly familiar intensity. After another moment, they grew wide, and his face drew up in shock, splitting open skin and scab and tearing through newly-healed scars; his mouth fell open as chapped lips began to try to sound out a word. 

“Hush,” Findekáno said softly, suddenly fearing that any movement would only make Russandol’s injuries even worse. His own voice was breaking, and he was weeping openly at the sight of what had become of his husband. “Hush, my love. I’m - I’m here, I’ve found you, I’ve - I’ve come to _ free _ you, please…” 

Russandol sighed, and shut his eyes; what little life he had left seemed to bleed out of him into the air around the two of them. He breathed still, but that was the most Findekáno could know for sure; no amount of coaxing or careful touch could rouse him.

_ We can’t stay here forever, _ Findekáno thought at last. _ Even if I want to speak to him before aught else. _ He resigned himself to the apparent certainty of Russandol’s silence, and he turned his attention to the shackle. But when he properly looked at it for the first time, what little hope he’d had of an easy rescue turned to grim dismay. His husband’s right hand was black, and grey, and blotched with red; it was in the advanced stages of rot. 

“_ Muk,” _ Findekáno muttered, and pushed himself up from the crouch he had been in. trying to get a better look at the metal. The more he saw, the lower his spirits sank - the shackle was not bolted or anchored into the rock, but seemed to emerge from it as if it were completely natural and had always belonged there. _ As if it had been sung into being, _ he thought, and even as he wondered he knew that was how it had been done. He probed the edges, seeking what ought to have been gaps between it and the flesh it encircled, and he found that even when he could slip his fingers beneath the edges they ran against yet more cold metal. 

_ It - his wrist has been pierced through, _ Findekáno realized, and another wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him. _ The iron is welded to skin and bone and goes back into the rock. That is why his hand is rotting. _ Sudden panic welled up in his chest, and he was blinking back yet more tears. _ I… I will not be able to undo this, or cut through the metal, even with the knife I have brought, I - _

_ \- how can I free him now? _

His left hand dropped to his side, fumbling with the clasp that held his satchel closed. It was the one thing he had borne up with him from the ground, hanging half-forgotten from his shoulder. He opened it and drew out the knife, awkwardly pulling it free of its sheath; his thumb ran over the runes set into the blade and the eight-pointed star of the maker’s mark. 

_ Do I kill him now? _ he thought, wincing. _ He - he asked me to, he _ begged _ me to. And - and I could. I could put this through his heart and end it. _

His eyes were fixed on the shackle, on the bone-white skin of Russandol’s forearm, on the deathly still _ nér _ beneath him.

_ I could kill him, or - or… _

_ … or I could free him. _

Findekáno was shivering now, the tremble in his hands spreading across his whole body. He looked at the knife in his hands, finding the runes a second time. _ Keen edge, _ he read. _ Clean cut. A blade enspelled never to break. _

“You promised me this could cut through anything,” he said aloud, voice frail and falsely confident as he turned the blade toward himself, angling the pommel toward Russandol. “If it fails, I shall have to have a word with the smith, impossible though that may be.”

He raised his left arm high, willing it not to shake, and it was as if time slowed to a fraction of its former speed. The world shrank about him, the whole of the Song fixed to the point just below the cursed shackle.

_ “Melindo-nînya, óravanyël,” _ he murmured, and brought the blunt end of the knife down hard against his husband’s wrist. 

He felt bone shatter beneath his blow. Russandol flinched violently, a soft whimper fighting its way through closed lips, and he had to stifle a cry of his own at the sound. Again the pommel came down, again bone cracked and broke, and Findekáno was sick and swallowing bile with every breath. _ All I have to do is move my arm, _ he told himself, turning the blade over in his hand a second time. _ All I have to do is move it. _

For a moment, all was still, even the wind dying down to nothing. Findekáno let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and the sound filled the air and echoed about him. His hand moved down, resting the point of the blade against the stone next to a wrist distorted by broken bone. 

_ Can I do this? _

The question went unanswered, and he found himself staring at the bright edge of the knife as if it could speak to him, could order him out of frightful indecision. But there was nothing, only the silence, and he realized again how terribly alone he was. The minutes spilled past him, and the wind picked up again, and the cold crept down into his joints and burned him. He shifted position again, passing off the knife to his right hand and letting his left cling to the shackle. One knee moved up to rest between Russandol’s legs, and he shivered and tried not to sob once he was finished and they were more or less eye-to-eye.

“It doesn’t matter if I can’t do it,” he said aloud at last, after he did not know how long. “I must.” 

He bent forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his husband’s forehead, and shut his eyes, and sliced the knife through quickly-yielding flesh.

The world seemed to speed up, cramming every sensation and realization into a scant handful of seconds. All at once, Russandol went limp, sagging against his leg and sliding left; his left arm kept the other _ nér _ from falling. His injured wrist and ankle throbbed, the dull burn of the cold sparking into sharp agony; he almost dropped the knife, but somehow held on. And the blood - 

He had not guessed that there would be so much blood in a limb half-claimed by rot. He had thought, in some instinctual and ignorant part of his mind, that perhaps by now the blood would have drained out of it. But no, _ no, _ there was red pouring out of the wound he had made, seeping his tunic and cloak and all the layers beneath, staining Russandol’s filthy skin, irrevocable and undeniable. He stared at it, helpless, frozen, gaping, barely able to think of what he ought to do as his vision turned pale and hazy and every heartbeat left him dizzy.

_ Let go! _

The thought was solid, unyielding, and forceful enough to be a blow to the back of his head. He shuddered, retching. 

_ Findekáno Astaldo Ñolofinwion, _let go!

This time, the weight of the voice in his head was enough to make him flinch; his fingers slipped, losing their grip on metal grown slick with blood. A bone in his left ankle shifted, and pain like a white-hot knife stabbed into the joint. 

He could not help himself. 

He let go.

He fell backward, arms tight about Russandol, still gripping the knife, and shut his eyes, waiting for the inevitable _ crunch _ of rock on bone - 

\- but it never came. 

He struck something sturdy but soft, and the impact drove the air from his lungs all at once, and then he was sliding sideways, and rolling over himself, and then, suddenly, it was over, and he was flat on his back and staring up at the sky as it rushed past. 

“What?” he asked at last, once the world had stopped spinning and pulsing at the edges with every beat of his heart. 

_ I told you, Finwion, _ said Sorontar, _ I would not let you fall. _

Findekáno shuddered, more from relief than fear. He could feel the feathers beneath him now, could see the wings of the eagle on either side of him; Manwë’s messenger had kept his promise, and he had not perished. 

“_ Muk, _” he swore, and sat up. “Russandol.” 

His husband was still and quiet in his arms, wrist still bleeding.

“No,” he said, and bit back five or six more desperate curses. “_ No. _ ” There was room enough on Sorontar’s back that he could lay Russandol down, and Findekáno settled the pale _ nér _ into feathers the color of burnished copper. He tore his cloak from his shoulders, cursing himself for leaving his pack with its many bandages behind. _ I still have my knife, _ he thought, and wiped the blade clean of blood on his tunic before using it to cut a narrow strip of cloth from the bottom of the cloak that now lay over Russandol to shield him from the winds. 

“I have to stop the blood,” he said, speaking to himself to keep focused. “I have to keep him from bleeding out.” He seized his husband’s wrist and pulled it out from under the cloak, retching yet again when he saw his bloody handiwork, and he let the knife fall into his lap and fastened his crudely cut bandage into a tourniquet. 

“Don’t die,” he murmured when his work was done, and lay down beside the other _ nér _ and drew him into a tight embrace. “Don’t you _ dare _ die and leave me here.”

_ It will be dark soon, _ Sorontar said suddenly, interrupting him. _ I will have to land, and wait for the dawn. It is not safe to fly by night in these lands. _

“Will it be safe?” Findekáno asked.

_ I do not sleep, _ Sorontar answered. _ And so I will keep watch while you rest. _

“But I can’t sleep either!” he said. “He - he might die in the night!”

Warmth suffused his thoughts, seeping through terror and exhaustion, almost forcing him to relax; he found he did not have the strength to fight it.

_ He will not die, Astaldo, _ the eagle told him. _ I cannot do much, but I can do that. _ There was a shudder that ran through his whole body, and his wings drew in and folded to his sides; Findekáno sat up and looked around to see that they had landed on a wide ledge set high into the sheer peaks that made up the walls of Angamando.

_ I will set my wing down again, _ Sorontar said, _ and you can carry him to the ground, and lie beneath me. I often wait out the night here; prying eyes will not find you. _

It had not occurred to Findekáno until that moment to think of pursuit, of orcs or fouler creatures seeking him out. In fact, he had not thought of what came _ after _ finding Russandol at all, and in that moment he was intensely grateful to Sorontar - he could not imagine what the return journey would have been like if he’d been forced to carry another _ nér _ strapped to his shoulders in place of pack and harp. He sat up onto his knees, and gathered his husband and his cloak up into his arms, and when the eagle extended a wing to the rock he slid down it and skidded to a halt on grey stone. 

_ Under me, _ the eagle said, glancing at the darkening skies, _ and quickly. _

Findekáno did not wait, scrambling to his feet; he darted in beneath the wing and found himself standing between a pair of legs like massive tree trunks. Each talon was big enough to sit upon and use as a stool. 

_ Get comfortable, if you can, _ Sorontar said. _ Lie down, and I will crouch on top of you, and warm you through the night. _

Findekáno glanced at Russandol, still pale and motionless in his arms, and nodded. 

“I don’t have a proper blanket,” he said, “but I can try and keep you comfortable.” He knelt down, and lay Russandol on the stone, and quickly stripped out of tunic and badly-mended breeches and boots. Every scrap of clothing he had brought with him had been pushed into service as layers against the chill, and now he divested himself of them all save for a thin linen undershirt; he piled them close to try and lend any protection from the cold that he could spare. Once that was done, he lay down beside the other _ nér, _ shivering himself at a particularly biting breeze. His left arm went under Russandol’s head, to serve as a pillow, and despite how much taller his husband was than him, it was easy to hold him close and cover his neck and shoulder with desperate, relieved kisses. Above them, Sorontar settled down on his massive legs, and pale feathers the color of fresh cream blanketed them both in soft down. 

Findekáno almost cried out from the shock of sudden warmth - it had been days and days and days since there was truly no chill in his fingers and toes - and he buried his face in the back of Russandol’s neck and shuddered. Exhaustion was creeping up on him fast, and even keeping his eyes open set his whole body to trembling. Now that the dreadful deed was done, he found he had no strength left for aught else.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and he did not know who he spoke to. “Thank you, _ thank _ you, you brought him back to me, I can _ hold _ him again - !”

_ Hush, Astaldo, _ Sorontar answered, and his thought was soothing. _ Rest, if you can; I will keep you safe. _

Findekáno shivered again, and shut his eyes, and let the soft darkness of Irmo’s labors claim him.

If he dreamt, he did not remember it. He woke, ensconced in soft comfort, with his husband in his arms, and while he did not know at first where he was he knew he was in no danger. Russandol breathed still, though he did not stir when Sorontar got back to his feet and Findekáno again gathered him up and returned to eagleback; he was as quiet as death, and grew nearly as cold in the early morning’s chill.

_ Well, Finwion, _ Sorontar said at last, once all were settled, _ the night has passed, and the day has come again. Where would you have me bear you? _

Findekáno looked around him, watching the Sun rise up and catch the mountain-peaks.

“We could go anywhere,” he said aloud, looking at his husband’s scabbed and mutilated face in the morning light. “Fly far from this war, from our families and our duties.”

_ But if you did that, _ he answered himself, _ you would not be yourselves, would you? _

_ No, _ he admitted, and sighed. _ Homeward it is, then. _ He reached out with one hand and caressed Russandol’s face, and bent down to kiss his forehead, his lips. _ Homeward, and back to our lives. _

“To Misrim,” he said, in answer to Sorontar’s question. “Take us back to my father.”

_ As you wish, _ the eagle said, and sprang out from the cliff into the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit is due to yavieriel for the suggestion to include Maitimo and Findekáno cuddling under Sorontar like a pair of chicks; I’m eternally grateful to her.


	5. What Other Duty Would You Have Me Do

It had been three hundred and sixty-five days since Findekáno’s disappearance, and Nolofinwë Finwion had felt every one of them like a knife to his heart. His people had not been idle, building homes and barns, and trading with the Sindar for seed; he had been needed, in all his capacity as King. And yet the grief lay heavy on his shoulders. He could not be sure his eldest son was dead - he doubted he would ever know the full truth, in fact - but he feared it, and his fear had only grown as the weeks passed. 

At first there had not been time to grieve. The days had grown shorter and the world had turned cold, the leaves falling from the trees and the lake freezing over into ice. His people had feared that the Helcaraxë had somehow followed them, or that the whole of Arda would go dark and frightful forever, and he and his children and his brother’s children had been too busy building shelters and stoking fires and easing hearts to acknowledge their own sorrow. But after many a long night when the only warmth came from vague and barely-formed hopes, the air grew warmer, and the snows melted, and the trees burst into blossom and the woods filled with birdsong again, and when it became apparent that they were _ not _ going to freeze again, his people attacked the problem of their new home with all the vigor and determination he had seen in Valannor before the Darkening. They built lean-tos, and reinforced tents, and set to making their encampment something more permanent than a jumbled mess of frightened people; there was a single bath house now, and a crude forge, and even neat rows of tilled earth for crops.

The great house he lived in was still the only dwelling that could be truly considered a proper home; its walls were plaster and its floors were wood, and there was glass in some of the windows. He had tried to convince the few artisans who had come with him rather than his brother that their talents would be better spent in aiding the people at large, but his requests had been rebuffed by the whole of his host. He and his family had brought them through ice and darkness and great loss; this was, more or less, their reward. The kitchens and stable and forge and armory that had to be built to sustain it would be used for all, and Nolofinwë did take some comfort in that. 

And he did like having a study of his own again, even if all he had used it for in these past weeks was sitting and mourning. 

It seemed as if all he had done, in the days leading up to now, was mourn.

Findekáno would be declared dead, in the morning, with the rising of the Sun. His children had begged him to wait, and yet he knew he had waited long enough. Any more time and he was merely delaying the inevitable, hoping for something that would not come. His father was dead, and Arakáno was dead, and now his eldest has joined them. The whole of the family had set to work preparing for the funeral, with Írissë offering to sing his elegy and Turukáno making the shroud for his empty coffin, and as they mourned so did his people, embroidering their loss on everything they wore and making music of their own to tell of their grief. But all was in readiness, with nothing left to do but wait; Nolofinwë was left to sit alone in his study, watching the stars through a window and musing on what he would say to his gathered host.

“Your Majesty?”

The words were dim and distant, almost like they were coming through water. Once, on the Ice, he had fallen and nearly drowned; the frantic voices of his children had been much like these thin and reedy sounds. His eyes were fixed on the blue-and-silver of his robes, on the thick black embroidery that had swallowed up one of his few remaining Valannorean garments. It would be picked out over the next weeks, thread by thread; when there was no trace of it, his formal mourning would be complete. _ I never thought I would have to do this again, _ he thought, and the bile rose in his throat and his heart hardened even more. _ Even in my darkest dreams, I never thought I would lose someone else to Moringotto. _

“Your Majesty!”

“What?” he demanded irritably, drawn forcibly out of himself and away from his thoughts. Behind him, Alcarinquar cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly as if to apologize, and then straightened up.

“There’s… there’s _ something _ coming down out of the North,” he said.

Nolofinwë froze, cold fear creeping steadily toward his heart; he forced himself to ignore it and turned to look at his watch-captain.

“What do you mean by ‘something’?” he asked with a frown.

“A bird, or something in bird-shape,” Alcarinquar replied, and brushed a thick sprig of golden hair back from his face. “If we were still in Valannor, your Majesty, I would say…”

“You would say what?” Nolofinwë snapped. “I tire of this, Alcarinquar. Speak plainly.”

“I would say it was one of Manwë’s Eagles, my King.”

The terror in Nolofinwë’s chest turned to deep, bone-grating dread. 

“It is still some minutes hence,” the other _ nér _ said. “What would you have us do?”

He steeled himself, mentally tallying his odds of being granted some new curse, and took a deep breath before rising from his seat.

“Have a place cleared for this messenger of the _ Herunúmen _ to land,” he ordered. “The bare earth in front of this house ought to be sufficient, if it is emptied of everything between my doors and the shores of the lake. If today’s hunt yielded anything substantial - a deer, or a boar - have it brought here. And water, as well.” He forced an expression that was almost akin to a smile onto his face. “I shall come and speak with them, and hear whatever it is that will be said.”

“And if it - if we are twice doomed?” Alcarinquar asked.

Nolofinwë nearly lost his composure, but he willed his hand to reach out and rest on his watch-captain’s shoulder.

“If we are twice-doomed, surely we are still less guilty than our Fëanárian cousins,” he said, making a poor attempt at a joke. “Now go - I would not receive the word of the Valar without the emblems of my office. I had not thought to wear the crown and brooch until the funeral, but I suppose even the best-laid plans go awry.” 

Alcarinquar nodded, turned on his heel as his King released him, and moved down the hallway back toward the doors.

The first thing Nolofinwë thought as he emerged onto his front steps was that it was an unusually bright night, or else the presence of so many nervous faces made it seem brighter. True to his orders, the entire yard between the doors of his family’s house and the shores of the lake had been cleared of cart and barrel and stone; two freshly-killed deer and a trough of water normally used for brewing beer had been placed near the edge of the ring of torches that marked the edge of pale earth and sand and the beginning of grass or paving-stone. Artanís and Findaráto and Artaresto stood near the lake, at the front of a crowd of deadly silent people; his own children were nowhere to be found. He supposed Írissë and Itarillë were resting; Turukáno was probably still at work on his brother’s shroud. _ No, _ he told himself. _ I will not think of that. The funeral is tomorrow; there is no need to cloud my mind with grief when it is so desperately needed. _

Everyone could see the shape now, and could see that Alcarinquar’s instincts had been correct and it was one of Manwë’s beloved birds. Nolofinwë watched as his people gaped and gasped and grew pale at its approach; he wondered how many of them had ever seen one of the Valar’s messengers this close. The Eagle made two passes over their poor excuse for a town, each lower than before, and finally drew up sharply over the bare earth to land. Each beat of its wings was nearly deafening, and the gusts of air it pushed downward were enough to make windows creak and clothes stream outward from their owners. He could see a pale chemise break free from its place on a line out of the corner of his eye; he hoped it didn’t land in the mud and cost its owner hours of work. But the air passed soon enough, and when the Eagle’s talons buried themselves in the dirt there was a tremble underfoot that he felt even through the stone steps.

_ Hail, Nolofinwë, _ the Eagle said mind-to-mind, _ second son of Finwë Noldorán, who calls himself High King of the Noldor East of the Sea _.

Nolofinwë wondered if he ought to be insulted, and then realized from the indignant grumbles of his people that the Eagle spoke to all of them and not merely to him.

“Hail, Eagle,” he said, and he knew that the torchlight was catching the crown and the brooch so all could see he bore his emblems of office. “Hail, messenger of the Valar. What brings you to our door at such a late hour?”

The Eagle shook its head, ruffled its feathers, and folded its wings against its sides. Suddenly, Nolofinwë could see that there was something on its back - where _ it _ gleamed red-brown in the firelight and starlight and moonlight, whatever it _ bore _ was black and opaque and - 

\- and moving.

“There’s someone on its back!” a voice cried, mirroring his own thought, and suddenly what semblance of order had been present was lost as five, ten, fifteen, a hundred people darted for the Eagle’s side. Nolofinwë could not say what wild hope had seized them, though his own heart leapt within him as the silhouette they stared at shifted and divided in half. Suddenly he could see quite clearly - a figure lying prone between the bird’s wings, wrapped in a cloak or a blanket, and a second figure sitting beside it, head down, clearly scanning the ground as if looking for a place to slide off. He took a few tentative steps away from his doors, leaving the stone of his house behind him and standing on the edge of the newly-formed crowd.

“I am going to pass him down to you!” the second figure cried. “But take care - he is grievously wounded - he may yet die - someone rouse a healer!”

Nolofinwë froze, the sound of that impossibly familiar voice rooting him to the ground as surely as if it had fixed him there with a spike. He watched, barely comprehending, as the first figure was lifted from the Eagle’s back and passed down into six or eight waiting hands and borne back into the torchlight. Someone from that knot of men gave a cry of shock, or grief; he ignored it. The second figure motioned for the others who still remained to stand back, and when they obeyed it - _ he _ \- slid down the Eagle’s feathered side to land on the earth with a faint groan. Slowly, shakily, he righted himself, brushing sand and dust from what could now be seen to be a filthy and bloodstained and much-abused tunic; he glanced from side to side and nodded at the people who stared at him in shock.

“Tell me,” he began, “where is - ?”

But the rest of his question faded and blurred, for Nolofinwë had begun to walk almost without realizing it. He shoved his way through the press of people, scarcely caring for decorum, moving faster and faster; when he at last pushed through the crowd he broke into a true run and did not stop until he had wrapped his arms around his eldest son.

Findekáno returned the embrace, his hands and arms shaking, and when at last they broke apart there were tears in his eyes.

“You’re alive,” he said, voice thick with what sounded like relief. His face was unnaturally pale, and his expression was frantic as he glanced around at the crowds that were growing thinner by the second. “All of you - you’re - you didn’t freeze, you’re alive…”

“_ We _ are alive?” Nolofinwë asked incredulously. He had stepped back, but his arms were still on his son’s shoulders, as if he feared that letting go would cause his son to vanish. He wondered what Findekáno had meant by freezing, and then dismissed it; there would be time for answers when they had both rested and this did not seem like a dream. “We… we thought _ you _ dead, _ yonya. _” 

Findekáno paled even further, his eyes flicking over his father and registering for the first time that he was looking at a man in mourning robes. He flinched back out of the hands on his shoulders, wincing and shifting all his weight onto his right leg. Nolofinwë realized for the first time that his left ankle was at an unnatural angle and was bound up in bloodstained cloth. 

“I... you… you were going to - ?” he began, but his father interrupted him before he could go further.

“To mourn you? To hold a proper funeral?” Nolofinwë asked sharply. “Yes. Yes, we were - tomorrow, in point of fact; Írissë was going to sing your elegy.” He was not truly _ angry, _ and yet he could not help but be frustrated; now that he knew his son was not dead, it was easy to let the months of tense worry and sleepless nights creep back into immediate memory.

Findekáno’s face grew almost as white as the burial shroud Turukáno was maybe even now still embroidering, and the gold wire that framed his braids was cast into stark relief. From far away he had seemed hale and whole, but here in the torchlight, Nolofinwë could see that his son had not returned unscathed. He was thinner - they had all nearly starved on the Ice, but he was skin and bones as if he had never left the haunted darkness - and grimmer, the airy and easy light in his eyes replaced with something that ached and smoldered and refused to meet his father’s gaze head-on. He favored his left arm as if it pained him, though it was not bound as his ankle was. His face was covered with bruises and his nose was bloody and twice-broken. He looked rather like he’d hit a stone wall while running at full speed.

The anger that had been rising in Nolofinwë’s chest turned cold and died. His son was shaking, staring at the ground, eyes flicking up briefly to catch quick glimpses of what surrounded him before returning to earth. _ He’s afraid, _ the king realized. _ Afraid I shall chastise him here and now, afraid I shall punish him. And I very nearly did. _

“Findekáno…” he began, but his voice failed him. Without harshness or frustration, he was not sure what he meant to say - _ what happened to you? where have you been? do you know how you have frightened us? _ \- and instead he watched as his eldest son still refused to meet his gaze.

“There is no easy way to do what I have done, Atar,” he said, shoulders shaking, looking every inch the repentant vassal, “and yet I have done it all the same.”

“And what is it you have done?”

Findekáno winced. “I have abandoned my King,” he said, “my people, my family, my position, and if - if you seek to exact justice for the wrongs I have done you, I accept it, but - !” His voice broke, and a sob that had surely been long-suppressed fought its way out from his lips. “But let me sit by his bedside, until I know if he shall live or die, _ please _.”

“What?” Nolofinwë asked. “Who do - ?” 

But then, drawn up out of dim memory with all the shock of a sudden blow to the head, he remembered that there had been another figure on the back of the great bird. An unconscious _ elda _, who was even now being borne up into the house and to the healers’ quarters. 

Suddenly, he realized what exactly his eldest child had done.

When Findekáno had first vanished, they had all feared treachery, but after weeks of carefully worded diplomatic missives back and forth with the encampment across the lake he had arrived to the conclusion that if they had slain his son they surely would have boasted of the deed. Eight weeks passed with no news, and at last Írissë had come to him and told him that she feared her brother had journeyed north to Angamando, alone and without telling anyone. This had sparked a suspicion in him, a fear that perhaps Findekáno had not been entirely truthful and some part of the tale of his nephews’ woes was left untold. A discreet letter to Carnistir - not their leader, but easily the most taciturn and the least likely to gossip - gained him a single sheet of parchment confirming all the shreds of rumor and whispered fears. Maitimo’s demise was not certain, only his captivity. And he had known then what had happened: Findekáno had learned of his cousin’s dreadful fate, and had set out to save him by any means necessary. 

And, somehow, beyond all hope and beyond all sane expectation, he had succeeded.

Nolofinwë’s mouth fell open in shock.

“I - you - you _ found _ him?”

Findekáno nodded, his eyes darting up briefly and catching the torchlight. They were still filled with tears, and he quickly dropped his gaze back to the packed earth before his father could see them streaming down his face.

“I found him,” he said, “and I freed him, and even if he lives I wonder if he will ever forgive me.”

Nolofinwë pulled his son into another embrace, and Findekáno lay his head on his father’s shoulder and sobbed. Around them, the crowd of people dissipated - the Eagle had snapped up the deer it had been offered in one frightful pecking motion that set the ground rumbling where its beak hit the earth, and with this done it seemed to eye the skies in anticipation for takeoff - and they were given a semblance of privacy for a few seconds. Soon, though, they were joined by a bright-eyed and fiercely alive Artanís, with Findaráto and Artaresto beside her. 

“So you live, then,” she said to Findekáno, and he laughed despite his tears.

“I do live,” he admitted, “though I am somewhat the worse for wear after my flight.”

“Perhaps it is _ you _ we ought to name High-Climber,” Artaresto said with a faint smile. “The name never suited me, in truth.”

“You sell yourself short, cousin,” Findekáno said. “I am sure you will rise high enough in your time.”

“I do hope not,” the younger _ nér _ said with a brisk laugh. “I am quite content to stay here on the ground, like all sane _ eldar _.”

They were all suddenly silenced as the Eagle sprang into the air, nearly flattening them with the pressure of its wings. It drew itself up and flapped once, twice, thrice, before turning and speeding north across the dark lake, and it left only the churned-up earth in its wake to prove it had ever been there at all.

“Speaking of flight,” Artanís said, turning back to Findekáno, “what exactly _ happened _ to you?”

Findekáno sighed, and ran a hand over his bruised and bloody face. 

“It is a long tale,” he said, “and one that will weigh heavily upon me in the telling. But I suppose I do owe the lot of you an explanation.”

“Yes,” his father said pointedly, “you do. After one of the healers has seen to that ankle, and to your shoulder and wrist.”

Findekáno’s expression fell into sharp dismay. “But Atya - !”

“We have healers enough for - for our guest,” Nolofinwë countered, glancing again at his son and his many injuries. “One of them, surely, can be spared to see to our Crown Prince.”

Findekáno groaned and looked skyward as if to pray for the Eagle to return, wincing as he did so, but said nothing. Nolofinwë frowned - it was, unfortunately, just like his son to be stubborn, and yet this seemed… deeper. He had changed on the Ice - they all had - but there was something more to this resistance. Where there had been a confident, bright-eyed, nearly effervescent youth, he saw now a man shadowed by some weight he would not share.

_ Well, _ Nolofinwë thought, _ we are family, and therefore if he refuses to divide his burden between us I shall take all of it by force. He will not be alone, not so long as I at least have breath in my _ hröa _ . _

“Artanís,” he said, glancing at his niece, “would you sing his nose back into place?”

“I do not - !” Findekáno began, but fell silent at a pointed look from his father.

“It looks more than a little painful,” Nolofinwë said gently. _ If he wishes to fight me, I will prove I am quite safe. _ “And it is easy enough to heal.”

“No,” Findekáno said, and there was a hint of weak panic this time. “No, Atya, I do not need this, please.”

“Why not?” Findaráto asked, and Nolofinwë was grateful for it. “Why suffer needlessly? It is an easy song, and one I have heard more than once.”

“Only because you refuse to behave with care and caution,” his sister retorted, and Findekáno almost smiled for the first time since his return to their encampment, and Nolofinwë’s heart grew a little lighter.

“Sister mine,” Findaráto said lightly, an earnest grin sliding over his face, “I promise you, my ending will not come from recklessness.”

“If the two of you do not mind,” Nolofinwë interrupted, “I would like to get to bed some time before the rising of the Sun.” He was reluctant to interrupt their chattering, which seemed to lift his son’s spirits at least a little, but he was growing wearier by the minute.

Artanís nodded, and grabbed Findekáno’s chin in one of her hands before he could duck out of her way. He flinched, and tried to turn his head. She held on.

“Stop fighting me, you ass,” she said, “and it will be over soon.” 

His son’s face was a mess of warring emotions, until at last panic won out. A thought unbidden sprang to the forefront of Nolofinwë’s mind - _ was he, too, captured? Is that why he took so long to return to us? Is that why he dodges my gaze and answers my care with sullen defiance? Eru, mark me, if Moringotto has laid a hand on my son I shall tear down the walls of Thangorodrim stone by stone, I swear I will _\- and he watched with mounting horror as Findekáno shivered and kept from writhing out of his cousin’s grip with what was evidently great effort.

“Findekáno?” Nolofinwë asked softly, willing his voice to be firm and flat. “Are you well?”

“Well enough,” Findekáno grunted, at last mastering himself and forcing his face back into its earlier emotionless mask.

“If I am not harming you, then _ hold still! _” Artanís said.

At last, Findekáno relented, closing his eyes and tensing for the song. Her work was as easy as Nolofinwë had predicted. It took only a few measures of the most basic mending chant to reposition the smashed cartilage and return his face to something closer to its original shape. When she was finished, the cuts and bruises dotting his cheekbones were also lessened, and despite his discomfort it was clear that he was relieved.

“Was it very hard for you?” Nolofinwë asked, heart pounding, and his son tried very hard not to make an exasperated face.

“I suppose not,” he acquiesced. “Now may I go sit down? If I am to take up the attentions of a healer and draw them away from Russandol, I would like it to be over quickly.”

When Nolofinwë nodded nervously, he turned on his right heel and began to hobble up the steps into the house.

“He’s hiding something,” Artanís said once he was out of earshot. She was speaking to her brother and her nephew, but Nolofinwë knew that she would have been silent if she did not want him to overhear. “I do not know what - he would not let me at his thoughts, he kept them locked up like they were more precious than - well.”

“Perhaps it was only the horror of the journey, and of finding M - our guest in such a terrible state,” Findaráto answered, also not looking at his _atarháno._

“Perhaps,” Artanís replied with a calculatedly carefree shrug, and pitched her voice up. “It matters not to me.”

Nolofinwë knew that this, at least, was a lie, though he doubted she was as unnerved as him at this proof of deception. There was much, of course, that Findekáno was not saying, and much that he would not say unless it was drawn half-unwillingly from taciturn lips; however, he could not dispute the truth of his son’s age and stature as a prince of their people. He was not one of Fëanáro’s children. He had some right to privacy, as far as his father and mother were concerned.

_ I do not care if he has secrets, _ the High King told himself, _ only if he is in danger, or if he has harmed our people in folly or in anger. _ It was only partly a lie. _ But he will not talk to me. _

_ He will not talk to me, and - and what if he was captured? What if he was harmed? What if Moringotto - _

_ \- no. No, this will not help me, _ he thought, and forced the nebulous images of Findekáno bound and chained and beaten out of his mind. _ Until he is clear that this has happened to him, I shall assume it has not. But he will not talk to me, and this cannot go on. I am his father, I am his King - he owes me an explanation for his absence. I cannot - I will not - force him to give an account of himself, not unless it becomes clear nothing else will work. _

_ I must find someone - anyone - who he might speak to. _

* * *

“Amdis, please,” Findekáno said, and his tone was bordering on exasperated panic. “Please. It was only my ankle.” He was back in his own room and had stripped out of tunic, boots, and stockings, and was sitting on the edge of his bed wearing only his badly-mended leather breeches while Amdis knelt at his feet to look at his injuries.

“And your wrist,” the apprentice healer said matter-of-factly, “and most of your fingernails are shredded, and what in Arda did you do to your _ face _?”

“Does it matter?” he asked, hands gripping the foot of the bed where he sat as she examined him.

“It matters if you want me to be able to repair even half of this damage. Frankly, you will be lucky if you walk without a limp. We haven’t quite figured out how to manage healing outside of Aman yet, if it’s not done with a song.”

“And _ are _ you going to sing for me, then?”

Amdis raised an eyebrow and almost smirked at him. “You’d like that, I imagine. Get it over with quickly. But no, I’m going to wrap your ankle in plaster and let it set. I’ll speak to the master healers about getting you a crutch.”

Findekáno groaned, resisting the urge to shrug his shoulders exaggeratedly. “This is ridiculous! I - at least let me go to him, let me sit with him! If he dies, I must - !”

“If he dies, you will be alive, and that is what matters,” Amdis said flatly. “My tutors and masters will see to him. You forget, the other side might have gotten all the craftsmen, but we have the healing expertise. I wonder, frankly, how they’ve managed to survive at all without someone to sing their burns away.”

“But I am parted from him!” he cried, and then when she looked up at him sharply he paled and swallowed hard and tried again, forcing his eyes to fix on a spot on the floor. _ I must be more subtle. _ “I - I might help,” he explained lamely. “I might calm him, if he thrashes or fights back. We were very close, before.”

Amdis glanced skyward as if in silent appeal to Nienna and Estë, and then returned her attention to her prince. “I got a good look at _ Haryon - _ excuse me, _ Condo _ \- Maitimo, and he might as well be dead to the world, _ haryon-nînya _.”

“What do you mean?” Findekáno asked, trying to keep the panic from his voice. Amdis was trying to catch his eye, and instead he focused on the large wooden tub that had been brought into his room. It was filled with water and soaps and bath salts; he could smell it from where he sat.

“He was insensate and deep in dream,” Amdis explained, at last giving up on making eye contact. “He did not so much as whimper when he was placed in the large tub in our bath house. Even when the soap and water reached the deep cut on his hip, he was silent.”

Findekáno bit back a deep and frightened groan, unable to shake the thought of Russandol weak and helpless and floating in the bath surrounded only by strangers. His eyes were drawn down to his hands, folded in his lap; he began to shiver.

Amdis put a solid, comforting hand on his knee. “I can promise you that going to him would not calm him,” she said. “Rouse him? Perhaps - !”

“Then let me rouse him. Let me - let the healers hear his voice, assess his health.”

“Rouse him, and then he would be in agony as his bones are reset and your slapdash amputation is repaired,” the apprentice healer finished. “No, _ haryon-nînya. _ Let him sleep, and let me see to you.”

Findekáno shook his head miserably. Tears pricked at the edges of his eyes, and he willed himself not to cry; it was not successful.

“I tried so hard to free him,” he said. “I had to do - I cut - there was so much blood, I feared he might die then and there.”

“It was a noble thing you did,” Amdis said, “not a foul one.” She frowned, reaching out with both hands and feeling a swollen place at the top of his right foot. “Even though it’s your left ankle that’s broken,” she continued, “your right did not escape all damage. But it should heal on its own, if you’re careful and do nothing foolish.”

“Will he die?” Findekáno asked quietly. He had not flinched at her touch. 

Amdis stopped, and sighed. “I do not know, _ haryon-nînya, _ ” she said. “I know that I have never seen someone so mangled who lived.” Findekáno grew even paler, and she kept speaking, as if to reassure him. “But I also know that this is not the Ice, and _ Condo _ Maitimo is not any common _ elda _ to be felled by malady or by misfortune.”

“He is not any common _ elda, _no,” Findekáno admitted, still staring at the floor but glancing briefly at her in gratitude. “He rather means the world to me.”

“I can see that,” Amdis answered, and they fell into silence as she continued looking him over and he returned to thoughts of what might happen to his fledgling marriage now. 

Finally, Amdis finished her cursory examination of his injuries and rose to her feet, brushing her hands off on a battered and much-abused apron.

“I am going to prepare something for your hands,” she said, “and find wraps for your ankle and your wrist. And you, _ haryon-nînya, _ will bathe, if it pleases you.”

“What?”

“The filth of Angamando and of many weeks’ traveling will certainly not _ aid _ your many cuts and bruises in healing. If they fester and grow foul, you will probably not die, but you will spend many a day in misery.” She pointed to the large tub. “The water ought to be warm still - there are heated stones from the fire that were placed into it. Bathe, and see to your hair, and by the time you have finished I will be ready for you.”

Findekáno almost laughed. She sounded very much like his mother, when he was far younger, far more prone to messy misadventures, and quite averse to bath time.

“I understand,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his uninjured wrist, and trying to smile. “I think I can undress myself, Mistress Amdis.”

“Good,” she said, and began to back toward the door. “I will let you, then. Take as long as you need in the bath - I will tell you when I am ready but it will not be for some time.” She bowed slightly at the waist, turned on her heel, and left him alone. 

As the door shut behind her, Findekáno stripped out of his breeches and gingerly limped to the bath. He rested his uninjured hand against it as he weighed the logistics of getting in and out - he could take all his weight on his broken ankle if he had to, and lifting his right leg first meant that he could lean on it for most of his efforts to climb over the side. This, then, seemed like the best option; he made a face as he balanced on his injured side and got awkwardly into the tub.

The warm water was a shock and a relief. Findekáno sank into the low bench built into the side of the wooden frame and let out a faint moan of pleasure as every muscle in his body instantly relaxed. He was quickly able to settle himself with his injured leg stretched out in front of him and his arm draped against his side and resting on his thigh.

“Thank Eru,” he murmured softly to no one in particular. “I have needed this.”

Tears came unbidden to his eyes again, and now, in the privacy of his own room, he found he could keep them back no longer. After so long being stoic and unshakeable, he was utterly exhausted. He wept openly, his whole body trembling. Each time he closed his eyes, he was back on that dreadful mountain-peak, Russandol beside him and beneath him, the knife in his hand, and the blood pouring out, so much blood - 

\- he cried until his eyes were red and burning and his breath came in ragged gasps. _ I almost lost him, _ he thought, shoulders shaking. _ I almost lost him, and I had to - oh, Eru, _ á ercat _ , _ hessanta _ \- _ ercamando _ , I cut his _ hand _ off! _

He was shaking violently now, a low keening whine building in his throat. He had not stopped to think, or feel, for even a moment since he first spotted Russandol dangling from the walls of Angamando. And now he could not keep back the flood. 

Findekáno moaned and sank underneath the surface of the water. _ Am I a lovesick fool? _ he asked himself. _ It has been so long since we last saw one another. How do I know he still loves me? How do I know he cares anything for me at all? Damn it all, I don’t think I can cry like this. And even if I could, is it worth crying in bathwater that smells like roses? _

_ Yes. Yes, it absolutely is. _

_ Oh Iron Hells, I am meant to be cleaning myself! _

He sat up quickly, shivering at the cool air of his room, and wildly glanced around for any sign of something he might use to better accomplish that end. After a few moments of confusion, he spotted a small cup to his right, built into the side of the tub. Inside it were two bottles; once he moved closer he could also see a flat bar of soap and a bag about the size of his hand. Findekáno picked up the bag, pulled open the drawstring, and was greeted immediately with the scent of lavender. _ Scouring sand, _ he realized. _ Good. I shall need it. I am positively caked in grime. _

It was a more serious effort than he had anticipated to clean himself. His skin had seemed relatively clean to him, but soaking and scrubbing and soap lather revealed layer after layer of ground-in dust and dirt and more than a little blood. Findekáno grimaced at the thought that his father had embraced him in such a state, and Artanís had gone one step further and touched his face. _ I have never been this filthy in all my life, _ he thought, _ and - oh, Valar, this does not even cover my _hair…

Findekáno did not consider himself a particularly vain prince - certainly not as vain as Tyelkormo or any of those who bore the name Curufinwë, or even Aikanáro with his painstakingly styled spikes - and yet the idea of his hair being as coated with filth as the rest of him made him shiver. “I shall have to take out every braid,” he groaned. “Every braid, and every gold wire, and I shall have to do them each over again once I have properly washed. I might as well cut all of it off and save myself the trouble.” But even saying that in jest was enough to make him wince. 

“There is nothing for it,” he murmured. “My hair will be loose for the first time in a _ yén _.” 

Findekáno reached up to the first of many braids, unwound the wire that kept it together, and began to undo the complicated twining strands of hair. It was slow work, and as he went he found grit and dust and small pieces of leaf. He realized with a jolt of revulsion that he had failed to properly wash his hair since his departure from Aman - he had bathed in a river upon their arrival by the lake, but there had been no soap, and it had been before his journey north.

“I am _ disgusting, _” he groaned. “I shall be here for hours.”

He was; the water had gone quite cold by the time the final wire was laid out by the soaps and scouring sand. His hair had exploded out behind him, fanning over his shoulders and falling into the water. He could feel a knot at the base of his skull that was roughly the size of a walnut, and he knew there were undoubtedly more beyond that scattered throughout the curling strands. 

“I need a comb,” he sighed. “Or a brush. And I am naked, in a bathtub, and my ankle is broken, and my brush is all the way on the other side of the room.” For a moment he considered clambering out of the tub to fetch it, but the effort would leave his bedclothes soaked, and by the time he reached the brush he had no certainty that his ankle would stand a return journey. Instead, Findekáno groaned again and slid back under the water, ignoring the cold and letting it permeate through the mess of his hair. 

_ Damn me for ever leaving Aman and its argan oil, _ he thought. He sent several curses in Fëanáro’s direction before remembering that Fëanáro was dead; he proceeded to curse at Námo instead for not permitting the source of all his woes to return to life and face due castigation.

There was a dim sound like a sharp pounding, and then a muffled voice. “Findekáno?”

He sat up suddenly, water dripping from the ends of his curls, and glanced at the door. 

“Hello?” he called. _ If I am lucky, perhaps it is Amdis come to tell me that she will not set my ankle if I am soaked. _

“Findekáno, are you all right?” a voice asked through the door. 

“What?” he called back, and wrung the water from the hair nearest his ears.

“This is hopeless.” the voice said, and suddenly he recognized it.

“I’m… _ Lalwendë _?”

The door opened, and his _atarnésa _stuck her head into his room. “Hopefully you are _ not _ me,” she said. “But Amdis asked me to look in on you. You’ve been here for the better part of an hour, are you well?”

“More or less,” he said with a grimace, and gestured to his hair. Lalwendë winced sympathetically.

“Do you want help?” she asked. “Since you’ve been dead, we managed to find some decent hair oil. Nothing as good as what we had, but it might be worth something.”

“Oh, thank Eru,” Findekáno said, and then froze and looked down at himself. “Do you mind that I’m - ?”

“You are not the first naked man I’ve seen, and you probably will not be the last,” Lalwendë said, and came in and shut the door behind her. 

“What is _ that _ supposed to mean?” 

“Can’t a woman have her secrets?” she asked, and crossed to his bedside table to retrieve a wide-toothed bone comb that rested there. “This place is covered in dust, by the way.” 

“I was gone for a long time, Lalwendë,” he said as she walked back from the table to the tub.

“You were a fool,” she said, but the smirk on her face faded into shock when she looked down at the water. “Findekáno!”

“What?”

“You are sitting in a pool of sludge!”

“I am _ not! _ ” he protested, and then glanced down at himself and realized that in fact, he was. The vigorous scrub he had given himself had turned the water grey and black from grime and ash and blood. “Oh, Eru,” he moaned, “I wet my _ hair _ in that.”

“All right, then,” Lalwendë said. “Get up. Get out. We can wrap you in a dry cloth, and we will bring in fresh water, and then you can get back in the tub and Amdis can set your wrist while I work on your hair, and then we shall see to your ankle and your other cuts and bruises.”

“But I - !” Findekáno protested. Lalwendë fixed him with a look that was so like his grandfather it frightened him, and he fell silent.

“Good,” she said. “Come on, then. No use waiting any longer.”

Once he managed to clamber out of the tub and sit on the bed, wrapped from the waist down in a dark towel, his _atarnésa_ went to work. In a matter of minutes, the tub had been emptied by dumping it out of the large window next to his bed, rinsed out, and then refilled with several kettles’ worth of hot water from the kitchens; he felt terrible for rousing so many servants from their beds but he could see in their faces that they were glad he was back and in one piece. Once that was done, Lalwendë helped him into this new bath and ordered him to wash himself again in the clean water while she fetched whatever was needed for his hair, and when she returned Amdis trailed behind her with a bowl of white plaster and a roll of fine porous cloth for bandages. 

“You are far cleaner than you were,” the apprentice healer said, and smiled. “I shall actually be able to bandage you without fear of infection.”

“I feel more myself,” Findekáno admitted. “Less like a half-wild beast and more like a prince again.”

“Good!” Lalwendë said. “Now put that hand up on the side of the tub for Amdis to work on. But first, give your hair a good dunk under the water.” 

Findekáno obliged; when he rose up to a sitting position again his _atarnésa_ had spread out a large number of things on the bed behind him. He spotted two different combs, a jar of something that looked like lard, and various bottles made of an odd dark glass he had never seen before.

“I am going to try and clean your hair first,” Lalwendë said. “While Mistress Amdis gets your wrist wrapped. You shall have to stay still for the both of us. Once that’s done, I’ve got a jar of some monstrously foul-smelling pork fat concoction that Írissë devised - it’s got other things in it, herbs and spices, but it is horrible even if it works wonders - for softness and detangling. And then flaxseed oil for the braids.”

“Flaxseed oil?” he asked her, propping his elbow on the edge of the tub so his wrist was upright. Amdis stood beside him and began to wrap his wrist and forearm and fingers in her cloth. 

“It is not argan oil, but it will do. We can grow flax here, for linen and for food, and until our fields are useful we can barter with the Sindar.”

“Did you say pork fat, earlier? We have hogs now?”

“I did, and we do not. Artaresto bartered for it somehow, though I did not know the Sindar knew what a hog was.”

“Hm,” Findekáno said, and flinched as Amdis’s fingers found a particularly deep bruise. 

“Hold still, _ haryon-nînya, _” Amdis said, and gripped his forearm more tightly. “If I do not wrap this well, it will not set.”

Findekáno nodded, and set his teeth and winced his way through the apprentice healer’s ministrations. She hummed a low song as she worked, and he felt it settle into his skin; by the time she had used a pot of resin to fasten the bandage into place he was in far less pain.

“Thank you,” he said, surprised, and she smiled at him.

“I will admit that I was testing myself more than anything - as I said, we have very few ideas of how well we can heal here on these eastern shores,” she said. “But if you are aided by the song, that is encouraging. Now if you please, hold still - my plaster is at just the right consistency for me to coat the bandages in it.”

“Do you need me to move?” Lalwendë asked. She had been sitting on a low stool behind Findekáno’s head, working a soap that smelled of sharp herbs into his hair as Amdis had wrapped his wrist.

“No,” the healer said, “you should be all right. And if any of this falls into the water, it will only destabilize.”

“How lovely,” Findekáno said drolly. “Plaster in my bathwater.”

“You have no room to talk, o Lord of Sludge,” Lalwendë remarked, and Amdis tried desperately to cover up a bark of surprised laughter. 

“That was uncalled for,” Findekáno remarked. “You’ll make Amdis upend her entire bowl if you aren’t careful.”

“I have better nerves than that,” the healer said, and started smearing the thick paste over her tightly-wrapped bandages. Lalwendë paused in her ministrations to the tangle of curls in her hands, and Findekáno grew silent and still so she could work. Amdis was fast, though he supposed she had to be to keep the plaster from hardening before she could finish; soon enough his arm was coated in white from fingertip to elbow.

“Do not get this wet, or it will all dissolve and we shall have to do it over again,” she said, rising to her feet. “And once you’re done in your bath, I will see to your ankle.”

Findekáno groaned. “If you must,” he said.

“I must,” Amdis replied. “Your father ordered it.”

“Then we will make all haste here,” Lalwendë said. It was a dismissal, and the healer knew it. She bowed deeply at the waist, her bowl of plaster held to her chest, and left the room. Once the door shut behind her, Findekáno sighed and leaned back against the tub as Lalwendë resumed her work on his hair.

“Finally,” he murmured. “Maybe I can talk her out of wrapping my ankle. Once I get out of this tub I just want to go to - I want to see Russo.”

“I cannot say I blame you,” Lalwendë said, her hands very near his head now. “How long have the two of you been married?”

Findekáno had been bracing his uninjured leg at an angle so he could recline with more or less his entire body into the water. At his _atarnésa's_ question, though, he started so violently that his foot slipped. His body slid forward, his head slammed against the wood and iron that rimmed the tub, and he would have dropped his newly-plastered wrist into the bathwater if Lalwendë hadn’t seized him by the upper arm and by the hair and hauled him upright.

“How - ?” he gasped, and coughed up water. “How did you - ?”

“How did I know?” his _atarnésa_ asked.

“Yes!” he demanded indignantly. “We - I, at least - have been so very careful!”

Lalwendë burst into low laughter and resumed her work on his hair once she was satisfied his wrist was dry. “Careful? You have transformed from a bright, easy youth into a frightfully skittish thing that flinches at eye contact and jumps at shadows. Maitimo has never been one for looking at anyone in the face, but you?”

“Oh,” Findekáno said. He was blushing fiercely. 

“Even those of us who have not married are not fools,” Lalwendë continued. “Your father is especially not a fool.”

“My father _ knows _?” Findekáno said, sitting up and splashing water and yanking his hair out of Lalwendë’s hands. 

“He will if you keep shouting about it,” she replied. “Get back over here or you’ll be dealing with mats for the next _ yén. _”

“Fine,” Findekáno moaned, and returned to his former position. “Are - are you going - ?”

“You are a grown _ nér _,” Lalwendë told him matter-of-factly. “It is no one’s business who you marry save your own.”

“But I am a Crown Prince of the Noldor!” he said, looking up at her. “I am answerable to my people and my family and my King!”

She raised a thick eyebrow. “Considering how our former Crown Prince behaved…”

Findekáno winced. “You have a point,” he admitted. “But frankly I would rather not imitate Fëanáro.”

“I would say you are succeeding. After all, it is not your half-brother who was pierced by your sword.” 

“_ Lalwendë _!” he cried, but she was laughing at him.

“You assume that just because I am unmarried I am an innocent, nephew. This is most certainly not the case.”

“But - you - !”

“Oh, all right,” she said, and her fingers were massaging his scalp. “I will not jest about this if you are so affronted.”

“I am,” he answered, and the hurt in his voice was evident. “It - I - I only want -”

“You want your father to know, and your family to celebrate, and your people to rejoice with you,” she said softly. “You wish for us all to take joy in this moment.”

“It is not something to jest about,” he said.

“Tell that to your mother and her reams of absolutely filthy blank verse dedicated to your father.”

“I am going to pretend I did not hear that.”

“I think that very well might be the best decision you ever made.”

“But. But no, it - we were - what we had was _ special. _ Sacred, almost.”

“Sacred?” 

“You will think I am a fool, perhaps, but - but in the darkness, with his arms around me? I… I was drowning in love, from all sides. I came closer than I ever have to glimpsing the heart of the Allfather. And now - !”

“Now I am making bawdy jokes about the best thing that ever happened to you?” Lalwendë asked gently.

“Yes.” 

His _atarnésa_ bent down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead, as she had when he was very young and staying at his grandfather’s great house.

“Poor Findekáno,” she said, and he could tell she meant it. “You have a long and hard road ahead of you, I fear. I’ve finished with the soap, by the way - give your head a good dunking and I will see what I can do with this concoction that Írissë swears by.”

He obeyed her, closing his eyes and propping his arm up on the rim of the tub; once he was out of the water and the soap ran in rivulets down over his shoulders, she guided his head back once more and started to attack the knots and mats in it with a comb and good handfuls of the lard-and-herb smelling detangler.

“What am I going to do, Lalwendë?” he asked.

“Do? Why, nothing, at least for right now,” she answered. “Your father knows you are hiding something, though _ he _ thinks you were taken captive yourself and managed to escape with Maitimo.”

“What?”

“He sent me in to find out if you had indeed been made a thrall,” she said. “He is very worried for you.”

“I am not a thrall, I promise.” 

“Well, no, that much is clear by looking at you. And I will tell him so. What you do after that is your own choice. But truthfully, Findekáno? I would do nothing. Be your old self, as much as you can. Guard your thoughts, and keep them close, and those who see your eyes will know you are wedded but will not know to whom.”

“And what good does that do me?”

Lalwendë fixed him with a stare. “You were absent for months, and believed dead, and returned out of the north from Angamando with many injuries. Rumors will fly that you were indeed enslaved, and - !”

“And they will assume that my marriage is a product of my imprisonment,” he realized.

“Exactly.”

“And they will not ask questions, for fear of offending me or opening a wound.”

“You see my aim clearly,” she said, and he bit back a yelp as a particularly stubborn knot finally yielded to his comb. “I wouldn’t go looking at everyone you meet? As Crown Prince you can certainly avoid gawking at the other lords and the common folk. But family will either guess at the truth or will politely abstain from speculating in your presence. And it would not hurt to drop a few hints, either.”

“This is a good idea,” Findekáno told her, and she smirked.

“I know. All my ideas are good. Now hold still and let me work.”

Nearly an hour later, Findekáno was out of the bath, his hair wrapped in a towel and his body wrapped in a blanket, and Amdis was putting the finishing touches on a second plaster-and-bandage cast for his shattered ankle. 

“You will want a crutch,” she said, “but in the morning I am sure one of our craftsmen will make you one. For now, you need a cup of - !”

“If you say ‘_ tea, _’” Findekáno said, “I will scream.”

“Scream away, _ haryon-nînya, _ for you need _ ránelet _ tea in you, and quickly.” 

Findekáno made a face, and winced, and groaned, but at last acquiesced. “To the kitchens it is, then,” he said, and it was not a pleasant prospect to be suddenly in the midst of the bustling activity that he himself had caused. “Damn.” 

“You are not walking anywhere on that ankle,” Amdis said sharply. “You are getting into bed, and doing your best to relax, and I will fetch your tea for you and then, Estë-willing, I will get some sleep myself.”

Suddenly, Findekáno was incredibly guilty - he had roused his whole household out of slumber, and for nothing that could not have waited until morning, and he had the gall to be annoyed by their attentions. He looked at Amdis, shamefaced and humbled. 

“Thank you,” he said earnestly. “Truly.” 

“You are welcome,” she said, and smiled at him faintly. “It… it is good to know you are safe, and know you have not perished.” She straightened up, and bowed at the waist, and made her way to the door. The latch turned easily, and bright torchlight poured into the room from outside. 

“Leave the door open?” he asked, and she nodded to him as she stepped into the hall.

“I will,” she said. “Do try and avoid doing anything foolish until I have returned?”

Findekáno smiled faintly. “I shall do my best,” he answered. “Or I shall attempt it, anyway.”

“That is all I ask,” Amdis said, and stepped back into the hall, only to collide with another dark-haired elf, a _ nér _ clad in loose-fitting shirt and trousers of undyed linen who had been walking with great purpose. 

“Excuse me!” he said sharply, and Findekáno’s heart leapt in his chest at the sound. It was his younger brother, Turukáno, bleary-eyed and rough-voiced.

“Oh!” Amdis cried, flinching. She turned and bowed very quickly, and straightened again. “I am very sorry, my lord, I - !”

“What in the Halls is going on?” Turukáno demanded. “There is a funeral at sunrise, and _ some _ of us are attempting to get at least a little rest before we are expected to hold vigil all day.”

“But my lord Turukáno - !” Amdis answered, only to be interrupted again.

“I meant to tell my father that the shroud I have spent the last week embroidering is finished, only to find every lamp in this place lit and half the household darting about like headless hens! Did we all agree without me to forego any sense of somber mourning, or must I drag us back to grief single-handedly?”

“Oh, will you leave poor Amdis alone?” Findekáno snapped. “It is not _ her _ fault that you were so disturbed, it was _ mine - _ if you must blame anyone at all, blame your brother!”

But Turukáno did not blame him. Indeed, Turukáno did not say anything at all, instead staring at him as the blood drained from his face and left him unnaturally pale. 

“Finno?” he asked at last, as if he barely believed his own eyes. “Is… is it really…?”

“Yes,” Findekáno said, and he realized he was on the edge of shedding yet more tears. “It is really me.”

Turukáno gave a pained cry, and he stumbled forward into the bedroom and threw his arms about his brother. They were both weeping now, clinging to one another despite Amdis’s admonishments to be careful of ankle and wrist.

“I…” he said at last, drawing away from Findekáno and blinking back his own tears, “I am so _ sorry _ , _ onoro-nînya! _”

“Sorry?” Findekáno said. “Whatever for?”

“For sending you to your death!” his brother said. “For my anger and my misplaced rage! Surely - surely it was my words that pushed you to such a rash decision!”

Findekáno shook his head, dismay rising in him. “No, Turvo,” he said, and found himself wiping away the younger _ nér _’s tears as if they were children again. “No, I would have gone even if you had been as kind as Ammë.”

He could tell that Turukáno did not believe him, and yet his brother did not argue, instead pulling him into another tight embrace.

“I cannot believe it,” he said at last. “I cannot. You - you are alive, you are _ here, _ I - how?!”

Findekáno laughed softly, drawing back from his brother and wincing at the weight his ankle was forced to bear. 

“I can hardly believe it either,” he admitted, and found he was crying once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timelines in the First Age are hard, and often have conflicting dates. Therefore I've decided for the purposes of this story that the First Age, according to Noldorin chroniclers living at the time, began with the Mereth Aderthad, and it was later attempts to update and change the calendar to bring it in line with Valinorean events that led to all the confusion. Nolofinwë and his people were on the Ice for sixty-two years, and Maitimo was held captive for anywhere from 59.5-60 of those years; they were camped on the shores of Mithrim for six months before Findekáno set out to free his husband. The reason that the Nolofinwëans don't yet have many permanent structures is simple - time hasn't really mattered to them until now, and their yéni are far longer than solar years, so they have no real need for haste or structuring their lives around seasonal cycles. When we see the Fëanorian encampment, we'll find out they've been far more industrious.


	6. The Deep Breath Before The Plunge

When they had both managed to stop crying, Turukáno let go of his brother and took a good look at him.

“Finno,” he said, “you’re skin and bones.”

Findekáno couldn’t help but chuckle - _ I am gone for weeks and weeks and weeks, and _ that _ is what he notices first? _\- but as the laughter faded he realized that yes, he had faded to a shadow of his former hale and hearty self. His cheekbones stood out starkly under dry and paper-thin skin, and what little muscle he had clung to through the ice and the darkness was more or less gone, and when Turukáno had embraced him he had been frail and small. 

“You could probably span my waist with your hands,” he said, looking down at himself. “I… I rather forgot. How thin I was getting. I mean, I had to stop and stitch my trousers tighter, else they would have fallen off of me. But it - I didn’t quite understand that it meant I was getting thinner.”

“Your sewing leaves much to be desired,” Turukáno answered, glancing at the awkward bunches of leather that ran alongside the outer edge of each leg. “Remind me to teach you to lay down a proper seam when all else is finished.”

“All else?” Findekáno said. “I mean to drink the tea that Amdis hands me and then go straight to bed.”

“And leave us all guessing at where you have been, what happened to you?” 

“Yes,” he said, and then remembered that his father had ordered him to give account of what he had done. “No. Valar damn it all, I am meant to _ explain myself.” _

“Good,” Turukáno said. “Good, because I desperately want to know what has happened to you.”

Findekáno looked at the floor, ducking his brother’s eyes, and shook his head. “There is not much to tell,” he said. “But I will not begin until you are all present. I only want to tell this tale the one time.”

“What did you _ do?” _ the other _ nér _ asked. “Atya would not tell us, would not say a word save that you had gone north and east. And Írissë hinted - she thought…”

“That I had gone to Angamando?” Findekáno asked, still staring at the gaps between the floorboards. 

“Yes.”

“She was not wrong,” he said, and he was saved from further questions by the sudden appearance of Amdis in the door, bearing a steaming mug in one hand and a wooden crutch in the other. 

“Here,” she said, thrusting both at Findekáno with a somewhat forceful smile. “Drink up, and then if you don’t mind, I shall return to my bed.”

“I’ll try and be quick, then - hold this, would you, Turvo?” Findekáno said, passing the crutch to his brother and taking the mug in both hands. He could smell a blend of many herbs and spices wafting up from the dark water, and he looked up at Amdis quizzically. 

“What’s in this? It’s not purely _ ránelet, _ is it?”

“No,” she said. “I had no idea how long it had been since you truly ate something, and so I took precautions to ensure the tea would guard against nausea, and would not shock your system into vomiting or cramps. I can say it will not _ taste _ very good, but it will not do you harm, and that matters more to me.”

“Right,” Findekáno said, grimacing. “Thank you.” He had been looking forward to food ever since it became evident he was in fact going to live, and yet the thought of this tea being the first thing to pass his lips in weeks uncounted was not an appetizing prospect. _ Well, _ he decided at last, after some seconds of staring into the steaming brew, _ I cannot make this more pleasant by putting it off. So. _

“I suppose I really am back,” he said, glancing at Turukáno, and then lifted the mug to his lips and downed its contents in one long swallow. As soon as he’d begun, he realized this was not the best plan - the tea was many things, but _ pleasant-tasting _ was not one of them, and he was forced to drink it all very quickly to avoid coughing and choking on it. _ Imagine traveling all this way only to die by accidental drowning in my own bedroom… _He survived, but came up gasping nonetheless, and he realized Turvo was laughing at him.

“Were you trying to _ prove _ something, brother mine?” he asked with a wry smile. “You’ve already done something far braver, and far more _ foolish, _than I ever will.”

“You don’t even know what I’ve done,” Findekáno answered, and as he shifted position the dregs of his tea swirled at the bottom of his mug. “You have no idea what it is.” 

“I’ll only know if you tell me,” Turvo replied, and shook his head fondly. “You’re back five minutes and already it is as if you never left. Come on, then, I imagine Atya will want to know everything.” He straightened up and offered his brother a hand.

Findekáno waved him off, setting the mug down on his bed and tucking his crutch under one arm. “It is well that I am uninjured in this wrist,” he said as he stood, “else this would be _ quite _ awkward.” 

“It is already awkward,” Turvo said, eyes never leaving his brother. “But let’s go. The sooner you tell your story, the sooner you get get to bed.”

Findekáno nodded, and took a few tentative steps. When he was satisfied the crutch would hold his weight, he walked slowly and carefully out of his room, in search of the rest of his family. He could hear Turukáno behind him, always ready to catch him if he fell; it was almost an annoyance to suddenly be surrounded by such care and intense focus. He made his way down the cramped halls, keenly aware of the plaster and wood on each side of him, wondering if it would fade away in a moment and leave him stranded in mist and mountains again. At last, he rounded a corner and came to the wide door that led into the dining room, and he paused for long enough to run one hand over the intricately carved frame. It had been plain when he left; this was tangible evidence of the passage of time, and he found it nearly brought tears to his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Turvo asked behind him. “How is your ankle?”

“It’s not my ankle,” Findekáno replied. “It’s only - I’ve been gone a long time, haven’t I?”

Only silence answered him; at last, he took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Írissë was sitting in her place by their father, bleary-eyed and obviously annoyed; Artanís and Aikanáro and Angaráto were clustered at the far end of the table. Itarillë was nowhere to be seen - probably sleeping, he guessed - and Findaráto and Artaresto were absent as well.

“I don’t understand why you roused us all from our beds,” his sister was saying as the door opened. “We have to be up at dawn, and I only just got to sleep, and…” 

Her voice trailed off, the next word forgotten; she had been interrupted by the creak of leather hinges and now she was staring at the two _ néri _who were looking into the warmly-lit room. The color drained from her face, and her mouth fell open, and she rose up out of her seat as if she were in a daze.

“Finno?” she mouthed, silent and shocked, and when he nodded she flinched back, almost as though he’d struck her, and there were tears streaming down her face. 

_ “Á ercat,” _ Aikanáro said quietly, his eyes alight with some deep emotion. “You’re alive.”

“You _ ass!” _ Írissë cried indignantly, jerked out of her silence by her cousin’s curse. She stumbled around the table awkwardly, her whole body shaking, and crossed the floor in three steps to throw her arms around her brother. “I don’t know if I ought to kiss you or _ kill _ you!”

“Hopefully the former,” Findekáno replied, doing his best to return her embrace with his plaster-cast hand. She had nearly knocked him over with the force of her affection, and while he guessed she would say he deserved any bruises that resulted, he knew his father and Amdis would be annoyed if the past hour’s work was undone. “Please - Írissë - be - be careful, I - !”

“I’ll give you ‘careful!’” she retorted, letting go of him only to seize him by his undershirt and glare at him. “What were you _ thinking? _ Where did you _ go? _ You let us think you were _ dead!” _

“I summoned you all here to get those answers,” Nolofinwë said from his seat, though he was chuckling. “Some of us know more than others, but the whole of the tale ought to be told at least the once.” He glanced at his niece and nephews. “Where are Findaráto and Artaresto? I did ask for the whole family.”

“Findaráto is coming,” Angaráto answered, “and as to my son? I could not say.”

“Did he receive my summons?” Nolofinwë asked. “He was there by the lake, was he not?”

“He was,” Artanís said, “and he begged off to go to bed. He said he was exhausted, and I told him that I would make his excuses but that he would have to answer to you if he had acted in error.”

“I suppose I cannot fault him for being tired,” Nolofinwë replied. “I am near exhaustion myself. So.” He gestured at a chair in front of him, glancing at Findekáno and Írissë. “Sit, and tell us what happened to you, _ yonya.” _

Findekáno sighed, and shrugged off his sister’s embrace, and awkwardly moved across the room to sit before his father. Behind him, Findaráto came through the same door that he and Turukáno had used, and he quickly came to stand beside his siblings.

“Where’s Artaresto?” he asked, and Artanís brushed off his question with a wave of her hand.

Silence fell. All eyes were on Findekáno. He took a deep breath and let himself speak.

* * *

In the night that lay thick over the shores of Mithrim, a lone figure waited, gazing up now and again at the stars. He wore close-fitting dark clothing that blended well with the shadows and the green-grey-brown of slumbering plants, but his eyes were bright and fiercely intelligent. For some minutes he stood at the edge of the copse of trees where he had halted, and then, his steps impatient, he turned on his heel and paced back into deeper darkness. 

And then, suddenly, there came a low call, low and undulating like the cry of a bird. He paused, tensing, waiting until it had faded, and then opened his mouth and answered in kind. The sound was distinct on these hither shores - there were no bright-plumed starhawks here, so far as either caller had found, and yet the noise would be familiar to any less-observant listener. The figure returned to the western edge of the copse and waited as a second shape detached itself from a nearby cluster of low bushes to join him. 

“Forgive me,” said Artaresto Angarátion, coming to a halt just under the leafy branches of the oak where his companion stood. 

“Finally!” replied Curufinwë Tyelperinquar Curufinwion, and his voice verged on exasperated. “I very nearly had to leave!”

“I’m sorry,” Artaresto repeated. Unlike his cousin, he wore the same roughly made tunic and breeches that he had been clad in all day, and his golden hair was loose over his shoulders. “There was... a troubling amount of family drama, and - !”

“Say no more,” Tyelperinquar said, and he nearly smiled. “I understand.”

“But - !”

“Come on, we really have no time,” the dark-haired _ nér _ said, interrupting him. “I daresay I’ve heard all the possible permutations an argument might take in this family anyway.” He turned and made his way deeper into the copse. 

_ I have a choice here, _ Artaresto thought to himself as he watched his cousin leave. _ I can say something - I _ should _ say something - by rights he ought to know, only - _

He winced. _ What if Maitimo dies? What if I tell Tyelpë, and he tells his father and_ atarhánor,_ and then their brother dies under our healers’ care? Then it _ would _ be war, surely. _ He sighed deeply, and shook his head, and followed after the other _ nér. I can always tell him as soon as it is certain whether our guest will live or die. Yes. That is what I will do, what I must do. _

“I brought another barrel of foodstuffs,” Tyelperinquar said, and he was gathering up a pair of bundles from where he had hidden them under a fern. “And two packs of tools, these ones for building out of wood.”

“Tools?” Artaresto asked, and his heart leapt up into his throat. “Won’t they be missed?”

“No,” his cousin said. “They’re quite old, crafted when we first began to make our encampment. They aren’t used anymore.”

“Oh,” Artaresto said, and when Tyelperinquar passed him a pack he slung it over his shoulders. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me,” Tyelperinquar answered, and his voice was strained as he began to push a heavy barrel out from behind a tree. “My grandfather sabotaged and stole from you. This is restitution, as best as I can give it.”

“I mean,” Artaresto said, and he had to fight not to laugh, “I suppose you’re not wrong.”

“I’m not - now, help me with this barrel! It’s heavier than that demon horse we’re stuck with!”

“Demon horse?”

“Your - Roccolórë? Nolofinwë’s nightmare.”

Artaresto burst out laughing as he took his place bent over the barrel. _ “Roccolórë? _ A _ nightmare?!” _ He could see the horse in his mind’s eye, a massive stallion watching Itarillë gather bits of stray hay to feed him with through the sleepy eyes that gave him his name.

“Is that - _ ngh - _so hard to believe?”

“He - he let my cousin climb on top of him when she pulled on his mane! He didn’t flinch when I accidentally hit him with the door to the gate!”

“That horse tried to murder me!”

“How? By boring you to death?”

“He lunged to bite my hand when I came to visit him after his stable had been constructed!”

“Maybe he doesn’t like thieves.”

“All I wanted to do was say sorry he’d been stolen!”

“He’s a horse,” Artaresto said, and chuckled when Tyelpë rolled his eyes. “Perhaps he doesn’t understand what ‘I’m sorry’ means?”

There was no answer, and the golden-haired _ nér _ shrugged and turned his full attention to pushing the barrel toward the edge of the lake, where they would follow the shore until drawing near to the Nolofinwëan encampment.

* * *

“You left without any _ food?!” _ Írissë cried, and Findekáno winced.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” he said, and he was rewarded with a fierce glare from his sister. 

“You might have _ talked _ to me!” she said. “I could have _ helped _ you, gone _ with _ you!”

“And risk Atar finding out?” he replied, and then glanced guiltily at his father, whose face was remarkably impassive. “I mean - sorry, Atya - there’s no way that two of us could have done what I did!”

“Then perhaps you should not have gone,” Turukáno said. He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows propped on the table as he watched his older brother carefully. “After all, he’s one of _ them.” _

Anger blazed up in Findekáno’s heart, but before he could answer, Angaráto interjected with a haughty sneer.

_ “Really, _ Turvo?” he asked disdainfully. “We’re still playing _ that _ game, when _ you _ are just as guilty?”

“I’m not - !” the other _ nér _ said, but Nolofinwë raised a hand and gave both his son and his nephew a sharp look.

“Enough,” he said. “I will be speaking to the both of you before I dismiss you. Holding on to that grudge, on either side, is pointless folly and only opens us up to Moringotto’s influences.”

Turvo spluttered indignantly. “But Atya, he - !”

_ “No, _ Turukáno,” Nolofinwë insisted. “If you have not yet learned the importance of alliances and open hearts in these dark times, I shall send you to live with the Sindar and their king for a good twenty-four months at least.”

“Twenty-four months? You can’t - !”

“Try me,” the King said, and his expression was stony and solid and his brown eyes were deep wells of anger. “Isolationism will not save us. I would have you understand that_ now, _ and not when it is too late.”

For a moment, a tense silence lay over the table, and then Turukáno nodded and relaxed back into his seat.

“Sorry,” he said to Angaráto, though it was obvious he didn’t mean it. Everyone turned their attention back to Findekáno, who sighed. He had been enjoying the reprieve from the constant stares.

“Írissë was right,” Artanís said. “You should have taken food, and then you would not have been reduced to gathering berries and stealing from Tyelkormo, regardless of how much he deserved it.”

Findekáno chuckled. “It is well I _ did _ steal from him, cousin,” he replied. “His bow was very nearly my saving grace.”

“What do you mean?” Aikanáro asked. It was the first time he had spoken since their impromptu council had been called to order.

“Well, after I took the pack, I wandered nearly lost and disconsolate in grief for nearly eighty days all told, and then at last I came to the first range of mountains. I hoped my journey would be over soon, but little did I know that it had barely begun…”

* * *

“What’s in this barrel, anyway?” Artaresto asked. There was sweat on his brow and running down his back, and both he and Tyelpë were breathing heavily. The pack of tools on his shoulders seemed to grow heavier by the minute, but their late start meant they couldn’t afford to stop and rest without risking discovery in the early dawn light.

“Salted pork,” his cousin answered, exhaling heavily.

“What?” Artaresto cried, and he nearly lost his grip on the barrel. Biting back a curse, he resumed his place by the dark-haired _ nér. _ “But - but that’s - this is _ too much, _ Tyelperinquar. They will _ miss _ it.”

“No they won’t,” Tyelpë replied. “The tools and the pork were meant to be traded to the Þindar in exchange for the rope they make, called _ hithlain; _we cannot match it.”

“I know,” Artaresto said. “Trust me, what few artisans we have are mad for it. But it is dearly bought, at least when we trade for it - how can you hope to do anything but return empty-handed?”

“I’ll just trade something else,” Tyelpë said, and grinned, and his teeth were white in the moonlight. “My father and grandfather gave up their work on stone lamps once it became apparent that _ silima _could be crafted into gems - they were rather obsessed, or at least Fëanáro was. And so my father was drawn after. But I never lost interest. The quartz we have mined here is of lesser quality than at home, but - !”

“Mined? You have a _ mine?!” _

“Is that so unusual? We have been here for far longer than you. And anyway it’s more of a cave that we expanded upon, and a pit that we dug beside the hill. You can barely call it a proper mine, or even anything at all.”

“Still,” Artaresto said, indignant and hurt at the continued evidence of his cousins’ prosperity, “you’re mining, and building, and smithing, and we’re living in tents!”

“I know,” Tyelpë said bitterly. The smile was gone. “It isn’t fair.” He shook his head, and there was a glint in his eye that might have been anger. “It isn’t fair at all.”

* * *

“You’re telling me,” Nolofinwë said slowly, “that you found Maitimo _ hanging from the side of a cliff, _ and the only reason he is not slain is because _ Sorontar himself _ appeared out of the sky and _ carried you to his side?” _

“You say it like that and it really does sound impossible,” Findekáno answered with a nervous laugh. He was staring at his fingers as they drummed on the table, wondering how he’d failed to notice how thin they’d become and hoping he could manage to avoid direct eye contact for the rest of this interrogation. “But - but I’m telling the truth, Atya. I would have had to try and shoot him through the heart otherwise.”

“How did you reach him?” Írissë asked. “Since the rock was so sheer.”

Findekáno laughed brusquely. “I was a fool,” he said. “I leapt from his back, and bashed my face against the cliff, and nearly fell to my death, and broke my wrist and my ankle.” He lifted his plaster-bound hand and glanced quickly around at the foreheads of his family, hoping that would give the impression of looking at them. “You can see the result of that.”

“You obviously _ didn’t _ fall to your death,” Artanís said. “I assume you caught hold of that shackle that bound Maitimo.”

“Yes,” he said. “And from there I was able to - to free him.” He shivered, and blinked back sudden tears. When his eyes closed, he flinched; he could see the blood pouring out of the stump of Russandol’s arm as plainly as if it were before him a second time. A sob built in his throat, and he forced it down with a low moan and stared at a spot on the table where the joined boards had left a gap. 

“Findekáno?” Írissë said. He knew she was watching him. He could feel her eyes catching every shift of his shoulders, every gasp, every sigh.

“Damn,” he muttered. “I - I cannot…” He sank his head into his hands as best he could, and groaned.

“I cut his hand off,” he said, and he was glad he was hiding his face when he heard the gasps from his siblings and cousins, for he had already begun to weep and he knew he would not have been able to hide the truth of his marriage.

“You _ what?” _Turukáno asked. He sounded aghast and incredulous.

“I couldn’t do anything else!” Findekáno cried. He wasn’t sure who he was defending himself from, and decided that it was probably his own doubts. “I - he - the shackle was welded to his bone! It had pierced through all flesh! His hand was rotting away! I could not save it!” He was shaking, and his heart was pounding in his ears, and he thought he would blind himself with tears. “I - I had a knife, and I used its hilt to break the bone, and then…”

He took several deep breaths, forcing himself to grow calm, to once again be the master of his own body. His eyes fixed again on that gap in the table, and when he continued speaking his voice was heavy with shock and grief.

“The healers know,” he said. “Amdis mentioned it, called it slapdash. I did not even think to challenge her or ask how she had guessed it. I suppose the recent nature of the wound must have been obvious. And the fact it was made with an elven knife.” He shivered. “There was - there was so much blood, it…” He sighed. “I think I will remember it always.”

No one answered him. He guessed that they were all staring at him, just as shocked and horrified as he was, and that only made the mounting misery worse. He realized suddenly that he was exhausted, that he had not slept in more than a day, and that even his hours under Sorontar’s watch had been a pale shadow of true dreaming and respite. He shook his head, trying to shake off sleep as well, and when he tried to sit back in his chair he slid out of it and onto the floor.

“Finno!” Írissë cried, and he dimly heard the scrape of her own chair as she left her seat to come and aid him.

“I think,” his father said, “that we have spoken on this for long enough. I can guess, more or less, what happened after that.”

Findekáno realized he was sitting on the floor, his legs tucked under him; suddenly there were footsteps behind him and hands reaching down under his arms to pull him up.

“Finno,” Írissë said again, and her voice was very close to his ear, and he guessed it was her who was holding him upright, “you’re exhausted.”

He tried to nod, and then the world dimmed to black behind his eyes, and he knew no more.

* * *

“They think I’m trading for everything with the Sindar,” Artaresto said. He could see the pale canvas shapes of his side’s tents in the dimming moonlight. “My father, and my _atarnésa _and _atarhánor,_ and Nolofinwë and the cousins.”

“That’s probably wise,” Tyelperinquar said. There was a pause, and then he asked “Do they really hate us that much?”

“Hah!” Artaresto laughed, and then winced. “I’m sorry. Only…”

“Only they really do hate us,” his cousin said. “And they’re right to, but - !”

“But it’s not fair, to hold to a grudge like that,” Artaresto finished. “And anyway - just because Nolofinwë and your grandfather didn’t get along, or our parents don’t, does that mean we have to hate each other?”

“Clearly it doesn’t,” Tyelperinquar replied. “And it’s definitely because I like you that I’m helping you.”

“Oh?”

“My family sets people on fire when they desert. And yet I’m here anyway.”

Artaresto flinched, and swore. “They set people on _ fire?!” _

“Did nobody tell you what happened to my _atarháno_ Ambarto?”

“I mean - I knew he died, but - I thought - !”

“You thought it was some sort of terrible accident.”

“How could it not be?”

Tyelperinquar shrugged, though his face was somber and his jaw was set so his mouth was a firm, angry line.

“My grandfather was a very troubled man, before the end.”

“I feel like ‘troubled’ barely begins to describe him,” Artaresto said. “I mean. I tried to argue some sense back into him, when he started rallying us all to his cause publicly, and even then I knew there was something _ deeply _ wrong, but I never thought he would _ purposefully _ burn his son!”

“I can’t be sure it was entirely on purpose,” Tyelperinquar corrected. “I mean. He definitely burned the ships on purpose. And when we knew that my _atarháno_ was aboard one of them, he wouldn’t let anyone go to save him. But I can’t _ promise _ that he knew there was someone in danger of being killed.”

“You sound like you’ve made up your mind regardless of certainty.”

“I know my family too well.”

Silence fell over the two _ néri _ after that, save for the occasional low grunt as they pushed the barrel along the shore. Despite the good news of Maitimo’s rescue, and despite his efforts with Tyelperinquar, Artaresto was suddenly afraid - if anyone of influence across the lake was even slightly like Fëanáro, did their family have any hope of true reconciliation?

* * *

“So,” a voice said from the kitchen door. “You’ve heard his story.”

Nolofinwë nodded. His children were dismissed, and his brother’s children had gone with them. Findekáno’s collapse had alarmed everyone, and once Írissë had taken her half-conscious brother to bed it had been easy to push Turukáno and Aikanáro into true reconciliation. Now, he was sitting alone in his place at the dining table, staring into a cup of tea and thinking.

“I have,” he said, and glanced up to see his sister Írimë standing silhouetted by the brighter lamps of the kitchen. She was wearing the same dark blue tunic and leather breeches that he had seen her in that day, and her dark hair fell about her shoulders in thick curls. She was a little paler than he was, but not so pale as Arafinwë; still, none of them were comparable to poor Findis, who burned if she so much as set foot outside for longer than ten minutes at a time without a hat.

“He was wrecked by the telling,” Nolofinwë added. “He had to leave the table.”

“Can you blame him?” she asked, and came to sit across from him. “He has faced a horrible ordeal.”

“And he’s hiding something,” he said grimly, “though I could not guess at what.” He looked up at Írimë, searching her face for any clues. “Did you speak to him?”

“I did,” she said, fiddling with a frayed thread in the sleeve of her tunic.

“And? Was he - ?”

“He was not taken captive,” Írimë told him, “or so he says. And I believe him.”

“But there is something he is not telling me,” Nolofinwë said. “Something I could not perceive, something that he is going to great lengths to conceal.” He sighed. “Do you know more than I do, Lal?”

The use of her childhood nickname made his sister laugh. “I know a little,” she said, “but nothing I judged ought to be told you without his consent.” She shrugged. “He is your eldest, and a grown _ nér _ in his own right. He is old enough to have some things kept private.”

“And if he is wounded? Poisoned? Scarred by some great horror he bore witness to? If - Eru forbid, if Moringotto _ hurt _him, I will - !”

“You will know when he decides to tell you,” Írimë said. She reached across the table and took his hand. “If he does decide to tell you, which I hope he will, if only because there ought to be no secrets between a High King and his chosen heir.”

Nolofinwë sighed again, and nodded, and squeezed her hand. “Thank you,” he said, and smiled faintly. “It is moments like this that I miss Anairë more than ever,” he continued. “She always knew what to say in moments like this.”

“Well, she _ is _my best friend,” Írimë replied, and she returned his smile with a bright grin of her own. “I can guess at what she’d tell you, if you like.”

“Forgive me if I’m not exactly confident in your ability to playact at being my wife,” her brother answered, sitting back in his chair and taking a sip of his tea.

“Well, _ now _ I’m offended,” Írimë said. “Some brother _ you _ are, second-guessing my knowledge of my dearest bosom friend!”

“Given half a chance you’d fill every conversation with bawdy jokes,” Nolofinwë shot back wryly. “And my wife is pure as the driven snow.”

“You can’t even say that with a straight face,” she said, watching the edge of his mouth threaten to break into a wide smile. 

“Oh, hush,” he said, but his eyes were full of mirth.

“Only if you will.”

For a few minutes they sat in companionable silence, and then Írimë stretched and got up. “Well, my mission is more or less accomplished,” she said. “I got you to smile, and think about something else besides how sad you are. Now go to bed. I’ve already sent word out that we shan’t be up at dawn. There is some confusion, but I doubt that anyone will regret not being dragged from their beds at such an unholy hour.”

“Is that where you were, then?” Nolofinwë asked as he got to his feet. “Rather than hearing Findekáno’s tale.”

“Not precisely,” Írimë said. “I went to the bathhouse to see our nephew. That is where the healers are keeping him, for the moment. I’ve been there more or less since he arrived, with a short break to speak to Findekáno.”

“How is he?” the High King asked. “I would have been, only…”

“You have other responsibilities beyond your family,” his sister told him. “That’s why I went. And…” She sighed, and when she looked at her brother her face was grim.

“And?” Nolofinwë asked. 

“It’s bad,” she said. “I - I have never seen anyone who was so badly injured. There is not an inch of him that is not burned or bruised or cut.”

“Damn,” he said softly. The weariness he had carried since his son’s disappearance had returned in force. “Damn it all. I had hoped…”

“So had I,” Írimë told him. “But he is not dead yet. He may very well make it through the night.”

“And if he doesn’t? What do I tell my nephews?”

“Send me over,” she said, “with Alcarinquar and Aicatillë. We are not familiar faces in the squabbling that you and Fëanáro were endlessly caught up in, so perhaps Macalaurë will take the news well if it comes from us.”

“That is quite the risk,” Nolofinwë countered. “Especially since they might try and kill you.”

“They can _ try,” _ his sister said, and her expression turned fierce. “Who’s to say they will succeed? Aicatillë is nearly better than you are, and I am quicker with a knife than I look.”

“You’re asking me to send you off to your death,” he protested. They had reached the far door of the dining room, the one that led back into the family suites.

“You are our King,” Írimë said. “You will have to send many more off to their deaths before your reign is over.”

“Don’t remind me,” Nolofinwë sighed, but he couldn’t argue with her logic. He took a deep breath and shook his head. 

“Fine,” he agreed. “If he dies, it will be you and those two who deliver the news. And they can come collect his body, provided they do not come armed.”

“If they come armed to a funeral, they are truly beyond help,” Írimë agreed, and pushed the door open.

* * *

“This is as far as I dare go,” Tyelperinquar said, and stopped. They were crouched next to a hardy pair of shrubs near the outskirts of the Nolofinwëan encampment. “I will already be back late; if I linger here for any longer I will definitely be missed.”

“And I am meant to be in my bed,” Artaresto agreed. He looked gratefully at his cousin. “Thank you, Tyelpë.”

“Of course,” the dark-haired _ nér _ said, and shrugged his pack off onto one arm before offering it to his companion. “Will you be all right from here?”

“Yes, I think I can manage. I usually hide what we bring, and then wait until my weekly meetings with the Sindar to fetch them out. And since you were meant to trade these things, then it will be easy to suggest that perhaps they came from your side of the lake originally, if anyone suspects.”

“And they will have spoken with me by tomorrow evening, and exchanged their rope for my lamps.”

Artaresto nodded, and smiled softly. “Who could have guessed we would be keeping our families from total hatred?”

“This is barely enough to qualify as anything more than good business,” Tyelperinquar answered, “and yet you’re not wrong.” He mirrored the smile he was given, and offered his hand. “Friends?”

“Yes,” his cousin said, and grasped the proffered hand firmly. “Friends.” He chuckled. “Now get yourself back across the lake before your father decides to burn your bed.”

* * *

There was no slumber that night in the little bathhouse by the shores of Mithrim. The healers had a challenge, and a true battle - their first since the frightful battle that had lost them their youngest prince, in fact - and they attacked their unwelcome guest’s injuries with every ounce of the fury they held in reserve for Moringotto. He was bathed, and bathed again, and bathed a third time, in tepid water and mild soap, and he left blood and dirt and filth behind him, and the bath ran red when at last they had finished. His injured wrist was cleaned, and stitched closed, and his shoulder was broken again so that it might be set and braced and given half a chance at proper healing. The room was filled with apprentices, and just-schooled novices, and above them all was Endanáro, the only master healer to have survived the Ice and the darkness. He was singing, his low bass voice rumbling through the air beneath every whispered conversation and sharp shocked gasp; he had been singing for hours. Amdis was with him, having ventured back from the great house; she matched him beat for beat to ease the exhaustion from his _ hröa _ with an easy melody. 

At last, after nearly sixteen hours of continuous labor, he opened his eyes and ceased his song, and Amdis trailed off behind him in shock, and everyone fell silent to look at him.

“He will not die thanks to lack of care,” he said, and the breath that the room had been holding was let out all at once in relief. He glanced down at Maitimo, who lay unconscious on a flat table normally used for laying out stockings to dry, and his face was inscrutable. 

“There is no enchantment laying over him,” he said, “and I have done all I can to return him to something resembling a _ nér _ and not a piece of meat freshly butchered. But we have a long road ahead if we are to truly _ save _ him.”

“Are we going to?” a voice asked, and Endanáro looked up sharply. The speaker was Indîrië, one of the apprentices; he fixed her with a fierce glare.

“What kind of question is that?” he asked. “We are healers. We heal. It does not matter who is brought to us, or what sort of person they are. We give of ourselves freely, and when they are either returned to wellness or dead, we judge their actions.”

“Oh,” the _ nís _ answered, and swallowed hard; she clearly did not appreciate being singled out and chastised. 

“I am glad you spoke up,” he said. “Else I would have to say as much again and again in private conversation. No. We will not simply let him suffer thanks to what his father did, what he might have done. When he wakes - _ if _ he wakes - we will let our King decide what to do with him. Am I clear?”

No one answered aloud, but he read the agreement easily in the faces of his underlings. “Good,” he said, and was satisfied. “Now, get some sleep, all of you. It is probably nearly midday by now, and tonight I would like to try and seal up some of the cuts on his legs.”

“Who will watch him?” Amdis asked. “I can, if you like.”

“No,” Endanáro answered. “I’ll stay with him. I could not sleep if I tried thanks to your song.”

“Oh,” she said, and blushed, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“For doing your job, and doing it well?” he asked. “No, child. You have a powerful gift. Use it.”

She tried to smile, and bowed, and left him alone; he shook his head bemusedly and returned his attention to his patient.

“You have a fight ahead of you, my lord,” he said once they were alone, “but you are not soldiering on alone.”


	7. If Ever I Was To Marry

Findekáno opened his eyes and instantly regretted it. He was lying facedown on top of something impossibly soft, and above and below him were pale cloth, and when he breathed in the scents of lavender and straw filled his lungs. _ What? _ he thought, and groaned when he tried to move his right arm and found it unnaturally stiff. _ Where am I? I - did I dream? Is this - what? _

He took another breath, feeling his chest rise and fall, and winced as pain bloomed across his ribs and shoulders and chest. _ What did I _ do _ yesterday? _ he continued, adding another question to his continuing litany. _ Did I go cliff diving again? Ammë will kill me, she hates it when I do that. _

Grunting, he rolled over onto his back, pushing himself with his left arm. The effort pulled down the linen sheet and blanket that had been so thoroughly covering him, so that when he was facing upwards he could see the low ceiling above his head. It was flat, and whitewashed, and very different from the lofty, vaulted roof that he lay under at home. _ So where am I, then? _ He glanced around the room as best he could, ignoring the protests of the muscles in his neck. To his left was a bedside table, with his comb and brush lying upon it, and a door that was shut, to his right was a low window with a wide sill that looked out onto a flat meadow and a line of trees, and at the foot of the bed was a space with a sofa and a fireplace in the far wall. _ Mithrim, _ he realized, and laughed at his foolishness. _ I am in Mithrim. And what is wrong with me? I have not dreamed of home in months _.

Chuckling at himself - _ I hope I have not slept through breakfast - _ Findekáno tried to sit up, using his right arm for leverage; he stopped when he again felt the unnatural rigidity protesting against the weight of his upper body. _ My wrist is wrapped in plaster, _ he realized, frowning. _ I - I broke it? That… _

_ … Russandol. The - the cliff, the mountains, I had to - ! _

_ \- oh, Eru, I made it back. _

_ I made it back. _

If he tried, he could dimly remember his midnight arrival, with its many reunions and conversations, but all he could see clearly was his husband, pale-faced and silent and still as a corpse. His heart was pounding through his ribs, and thanks to the fact that he was skin and bone and little else, he could feel every beat. _ How long have I been asleep? _ he wondered, and cursed himself. _ I never should have left his side. What if he has died, and they waited until I was awake to tell me? _ That thought made him flinch, violently, and he clutched his injured right arm to his chest, fingers wrapping around the wrist but venturing no higher. _ Ercamando, _ he swore. _ Muk. Eitho, as the Sindar say, though I am not supposed to know that word. I have to get out of this bed. I must. _But that seemed more or less impossible, as every muscle in his body was burning with a low, furious pain that sapped his strength even as he lay motionless. It felt as if he had slammed face-first into a wall at a great speed, or as if he were a youth again and his high spirits had once more led to foolish games with nasty consequences.

“Of course,” he sighed aloud, more for the pleasure of hearing his own voice than anything, “I _ did _ slam into a wall at great speed. A thousand curses on Moringotto.” _ Oh, let someone come see me, and quickly… _

But minute after minute ticked by, and the door that led into the rest of the house remained closed. Findekáno tried to pass the time by watching the play of light and shadow along the rough ceiling. There had been some change in the weeks since his absence - for one thing, his window was now sealed shut with a pane of thick glass that made the trees ripple when he moved his head - and he wondered how hard it had been to get his father to accept the labors of his people. 

“Knowing Atya,” he mused aloud, “he is _ still _ upset that our glassblowers wasted time on the family rather than making windows for everyone else. Of course, he still _ uses _ them, so I wonder how much that discomfort is worth. I would have put my foot down, if I were him, but - !”

His one-sided debate was interrupted by the door opening, and the sound of someone trying to manage a latch and a tray of food at the same time. Findekáno rolled over onto his right side to see Írissë and Lalwendë standing in the doorway; his sister bore the tray and behind him he could see his aunt with what looked like a roll of gauze and a bottle of some kind. 

“I hoped you would be awake,” Írissë said, and smiled at him. “The healers said to check on you.”

“How long have I been asleep?” he asked.

“Three days,” Lalwendë supplied. “Are you going to go into his room, Írissë, or are you going to stand there?” 

“Three _ days?!” _ Findekáno cried, using his left elbow to sit up all at once. “But - but Russo could be - !”

“He’s _ fine,” _ Lalwendë told him, and Írissë moved out of the door so his aunt could close it behind them all. “Or… stable, at least.”

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t look so terrified, Finno,” Írissë said. She sat beside him on the bed and offered him th tray, folding out a pair of legs from beneath it so it sat up over his lap. “He’s stable. That’s what it means. He hasn’t woken or stirred, but he’s not dead or dying.”

“I have to go to him,” Findekáno said, but before he could extricate himself from tray and bedclothes, Lalwendë had sat beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. 

“You have to _ eat, _nephew,” she corrected gently. “And rest. Endanáro took a look at you while you slept, and he says it has been weeks on end since you last swallowed more than water.”

“... what?” Findekáno asked, frowning. “It cannot - surely, I…” His voice trailed off as he examined his own memory, and he found that he could not remember more than grimy rainwater having passed his lips since the very early days in the mountains of iron. 

“Oh,” he finished lamely, and looked down at the tray in his lap. “I… I ought to eat, then.”

“More than _ ought to,” _ Írissë said. “I will feed you myself if you argue.”

“Do I look like I’m arguing?” Findekáno asked, half-jesting, and began to study his tray in earnest. There were cooked eggs, and toast, and even a mush that smelled of baked apples. Suddenly, he was keenly aware of the great emptiness within him, feeling more like a hollow shell than an embodied _ elda; _ in response, he picked up a two-pronged fork made of wood and stabbed awkwardly into the pile of egg. The smell was incredible, even though somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that what he had been given was poorly seasoned by any true standard. The simple meal before him was yet more tangible evidence of how far his father’s host had sunk in the crossing of the Ice, and yet he could not deny that it was heavenly to consider that he had a full plate of prepared food before him. _ Farewell to half-frozen roots, _ he thought, and smiled before he took his first bite.

No sooner had it passed his lips than he found himself assailed by flavors that he had more or less forgotten entirely - the sharp tang of salt and pepper, the almost creamy egg, the way the fat it had been cooked in seemed to fill every crevice in his mouth - and it left him shivering and wondering how he had been so blessed as to get an entire plate of hot food. _ I will not cry, _ he thought, already feeling pinpricks in the corners of his eyes. _ I will not cry _ again _ over something so small, I am sick to death of crying. _But it was a futile effort, and he let himself eat with the tears streaming down his face. He said nothing as he devoured the whole of his plate, reveling in butter and hardly believing that the sugar and spices of baked apple could exist in a world that had shrunk to the bounds of what his hands could gather in the cold, and when he was finished he took the tea that Írissë offered and downed it in a single swallow.

“Are you all right?” Lalwendë asked once he had finished. He was staring at the crumbs of food that his fork could not collect. 

“I am… I live,” Findekáno said, “and I am more or less beginning to believe that, finally.” He swallowed again, tasting the lingering warmth, and tried to smile. “I am sorry for making such a scene, only - the last thing I ate was a handful of mostly-frozen haws, and a mouthful of grime and rainwater. There is no snow in the mountains of iron,” he added, to address the confusion on the faces of his sister and his aunt, “so even what we fed on while crossing the Ice was lost to me.” 

“Findekáno,” Írissë said gently, her hand going to his arm; he knew she had forgiven him for lying to her. 

“I brought him back,” he said, willing himself to stay calm, and feeling the looming horror rise again behind his eyes. “I brought him back, and that is what matters.”

“Be that as it may, you are a hero now,” Lalwendë said.

“No,” Findekáno scoffed, and when she raised an eyebrow he felt the urge to sink back into the pillows and disappear within them. “_ No.” _

“Yes,” Lalwendë amended, almost smiling at him. “Your father made the announcement that you had returned, and brought back Nelyafinwë to heal the rift between our houses, and he means to hold a feast for you, to celebrate your accomplishment. As soon as you are able to sit for it, of course.”

“Oh, Eru,” Findekáno groaned, and passed his hand over his eyes. “No. I - I did - I cannot - all those _ people, _Lalwendë, how can I?!”

“You cannot mean to hide in your rooms for always now that your husband is back among the living,” she said. “Whatever happened to letting them assume what they will?”

“But - but that’s - !” Findekáno knew he was fighting a losing battle, and yet he could not help but protest it. The night he had returned was a dim blur now, buried by exhaustion and relief and wonder at his survival, and he could barely recall having agreed to such a proposition. He knew, though, that it was best, at least until he could speak privately to Russandol and ascertain what they meant to do.

_ Assuming he lives, _ he thought, and grimaced.

“What is it?” Írissë asked him. “Are you all right? Did something make you sick because it was too rich too quickly?”

“Not that,” Findekáno said, and shook his head. “It just occurred to me that I do not yet know if the husband that our aunt refers to will _ survive, _ let alone be whole and hale enough to discuss what we ought to do next.”

“He’s stronger than he seems, if we’re any indication,” Írissë told him. “After all, we walked for all those days uncounted, and our only food was what we could kill, and it was not a journey free of peril. And look at us now.”

That thought lightened Findekáno’s mood considerably. His sister was right - and even he was proof of their durability, considering that he had not even truly _ recovered _from the darkness and the cold before setting out alone to scale Thangorodrim, and he too had succeeded and was now sitting comfortably in bed. 

“You’re right,” he said. “I must be optimistic. He will live. He _ will.” _

_ But I will not be satisfied of such things until I see him. And on that note… _

“I have lain abed for far too long,” he said, and locked eyes with Írissë and Lalwendë in turn. “I must see him. I cannot bear this separation a moment longer, not when I have no way of ascertaining his true state.” 

The _ níssi _before him glanced at one another, and then Lalwendë turned her gaze to the crutch propped up by the door. 

“No,” Írissë said, and then shook her head. _ “No, _ Findekáno, you are weak and starved, you cannot - !”

“We can’t keep him in bed forever,” Lalwendë interrupted. “And if we are not with him, you know he will crawl out of this room by himself until he has seen Nelyafinwë with his own eyes and is certain we are not all conspiring to poison him.”

“I don’t think that!” Findekáno cried, and then winced when he realized his aunt was laughing at him. 

“You’re acting like he’s only safe if you’re beside him at all times, with your hand on his shoulder,” she said gently. “It was a jest at your expense.”

“Normally I would laugh,” Findekáno said, “but I nearly died thanks to an _ ausa _ in the mountains. I am suddenly quite wary of illusion. And…” _ And I worked for so long to see him safe again, and I can hardly believe it is real. _ He sighed, voice trailing off, and leaned back against the pillows. His bed seemed suddenly welcoming, as if the force of his emotions had robbed him of what little strength he had regained, and his wrist and ankle throbbed beneath their plaster bindings. _ I am exhausted, _ he realized. _ And dizzy, and weak, and I am thinking of leaving this room to walk halfway across the encampment? Has my adventure truly driven me mad? _ Nausea rose up out of his stomach, making him regret his hearty meal, and the pain in his injured limbs intensified. _ I could stay here, _ he thought. _ I could sleep, and sleep yet again, and - _

_ \- no. No. I have to see him. I have to. I must. _

Findekáno swallowed bile, took a few deep breaths to try and settle his stomach, winced when that failed, and finally pasted a halfhearted smile across unwilling lips as he looked towards his sister.

“Will you help me?” he asked her. “Please?”

Írissë groaned. “You’re an ass,” she replied as she got up from the bed, “but I can’t say no to my favorite brother.”

“Oh, so I’m your favorite now?”

“Don’t tell Turvo,” she answered, grinning. 

Findekáno chuckled and moved to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs out over the side. “My lips are sealed.”

“Officially,” Lalwendë told them, watching as Írissë pulled her brother to his feet, “you aren’t supposed to have favorite siblings.”

“You’re no fun,” Írissë said, putting one arm about Findekáno so he could take a few uncertain steps. 

_ “Un _officially,” Lalwendë continued, “I’m partial to your father.”

“Hah!” the younger _ nís _ cried. “I knew it. Alcarinquar owes me a drink, as soon as we have proper ale again.”

“There’s a betting pool for which of my siblings is my favorite?”

“There’s a betting pool for everything,” Findekáno answered queasily. His ankle burned as if it had been set aflame, and his grip on Írissë’s arm had grown tighter with every passing second. His whole body was hot and cold all at once, with nothing looking so wonderful as the bed he had just left. _ I’m going to be sick, _ he thought, and then was shocked when he took two more steps and did not vomit up egg and toast. 

“You’re pale as a corpse,” Lalwendë told him worriedly. “You must lie down.”

“No,” he answered, forcing his voice to be steady. “No. This is only exhaustion and shock. I will be well, given time. I - I must see him.”

“But you’re - !”

“Talk to me,” he said to Írissë, cutting off his aunt purposefully. “Tell me - anything. Gossip, crop yields, what embroidery Artaresto is learning, if the Sindar are any less stingy in their trading. I care not. I need something to fix my mind to.”

“Findekáno,” his sister said, “I don’t know if that’s best.” But she moved with him, supporting his every step.

“You said you would help me,” he told her. “So help me. Get me to the door, and the crutch, and I shall be able to walk on my own.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Lalwendë muttered, but she did not stop the two of them as they hobbled to the closed door and the crude wooden support. Írissë was on Findekáno’s right, and so she didn’t have to move when he took the crutch and tucked it under his left arm. 

“There,” he said, trying to sound relieved and only sounding sick. “There, now I can go to him. Thank you. This will be quite simple.”

* * *

In the end, it was not simple. Both Írissë and Lalwendë had to support him, with his aunt carrying the crutch in her free arm, and even the slightest weight on his injured ankle forced Findekáno to bite his tongue to keep from screaming. By now, his whole body was burning, and the bright light of the Sun left him in a daze. _ This was a mistake, _ he thought, and then cursed himself for thinking it. _ No. No, I must see him, I must, if I go back now it is wasted effort… _ He was vaguely aware that people must be staring at him. He could not bring himself to care, only to watch from somewhere far behind his eyes as the low bathhouse grew closer and closer to him.

“Once I see him,” he murmured wearily, “I will go back to bed. I swear it.”

“Or you’ll drop dead,” Írissë replied darkly. 

“I take offense to that remark,” Findekáno retorted. “I can’t die yet. I haven’t cut Moringotto’s head off.”

“You’ll never cut anyone’s head off if you keep this up.”

“Hah,” he said, but could not muster the strength to speak again. All around him were the dim shapes of other _ eldar _ \- watching him silently, probably staring in shock and horror. _ A fine spectacle I make, _ he thought, and grimaced. _ It seems that is my destiny of late: easy entertainment. _

At last, the Sun’s light was abruptly cut off, and Findekáno looked up to find himself at the door to the bathhouse. It was simple, far simpler than the solid oak that barred off the great house from the rest of the camp, and yet the sight of a few boards nailed together left him shivering with a deep, bone-gripping terror. 

“He’s not dead,” he told himself, and his hands dug into the arms holding him up. “He’s not dead.”

“I’d better go in first,” Lalwendë said, and let go of him. “I’ve been here before, and Endanáro will tell me off if it is a bad time.”

“A bad time?” Findekáno asked, clinging to Írissë with both hands now. “What do you mean?”

His aunt fixed him with a no-nonsense look. “Well, if I were being blunt, I would say ‘exactly like you right now,’ nephew,” she said. “But since you are Halls-bent on being stubborn? Perhaps he is in surgery, or just coming out of it, or preparing for it. Perhaps he is in the bath, or they are changing his bandages and it is an ugly sight.”

“I have seen ugliness aplenty,” Findekáno replied quietly, his voice barely more than a murmur. “But… but go. Please.”

“Do you promise me you will _ lie down _ when you have finished this damn fool endeavor?”

“Yes,” he said, wincing. The pain in his wrist and ankle flared up and he nearly retched.

“Then I am satisfied,” Lalwendë said, and opened the door, and stepped into the bathhouse.

Both Findekáno and Írissë were silent at first, and then when he shifted his weight onto his injured ankle and nearly collapsed, his sister groaned and turned to murmur in his ear.

“You are making a scene,” she said, “which I do not care about, only Atya will in fact hear of this. From many people, if I am not mistaken.”

“And you think our father cares if we are seen existing publicly?” Findekáno asked as the edges of his vision turned hazy.

“I _ think _ ,” Írissë said, “that he cares about _ you, _ his _ son, _ and that hearing tales of you nearly killing yourself to visit Maitimo will concern him greatly.”

“I am not nearly killing myself,” he retorted weakly, but their conversation was abandoned as the door opened a second time and Lalwendë came back outside.

“He is just out of surgery,” she said, “by perhaps half an hour or so. He is still sleeping off the effects of the Song that sedated him and gave him comfort, though he has not woken yet, and…” Her voice trailed off abruptly, and her face grew flushed, and she looked down at her boots.

“The healers wonder if he will in fact wake at all,” Findekáno finished for her. He smiled, though it was more of a mirthless grimace. “It is their job to be pessimistic, I suppose. May I see him, then, or have I come all this way in vain?” _ And have all these past days and weeks been nothing more than an exercise in forestalling the inevitable? Shall he be the next of us to fall to Námo’s accursed Doom? _

“You may,” Lalwendë said, cutting off his litany of near-despair. “But Endanáro will probably want to have a look at you again once you’re inside, so be prepared for that.”

Findekáno groaned, and extended a hand. 

“My crutch?” he asked. “I… I want to stand on my own, when I see him.”

“I don’t know why,” his aunt said, but handed him the crutch. “It’s not as if we won’t help you.” 

“I know,” he answered, “but… but let me have this. Please.”

Lalwendë rolled her eyes and sighed. “You Ñolofinwion children are all the same. Just like your father, except without his caution. Fine. On your own head be it. ‘Knock yourself out’, as Findis’s jousting team would say.”

Findekáno chuckled and drew himself up painfully from Írissë’s arms, leaning heavily on the crutch. Pain bloomed up in his injured joints, and he staggered back as his eyes seemed to fill with mist and then grow clear again; at last, after several ragged breaths, he was confident he could walk unaided. He nodded to his aunt, and she held the door open for long enough to let him pass into the bathhouse.

Inside the small structure, the light was dim, and warmer. Despite the risk of fire, there were dozens of candles lit around the single room, anchored into the wall like torches or set on tables or in dishes on the ground. The whole of the place was one room, partially divided by outer walls but not sectioned off, with a large common chamber in front and a smaller room behind that Findekáno guessed was where the baths themselves were. This, then, was a space for changing and socializing - or it would be, when it was no longer a surgery. 

“Ah, _ haryon-nînya,” _ a voice said, and Findekáno flinched as a slender _ nér _ rose from a bench to greet him. This was Endanáro, the most senior of their healers; he was silver-haired and an ancient light burned in his eyes. He was of an age with Findekáno’s departed grandfather Finwë, and he moved with the same deliberate intensity. Even his white healer’s robes were perfectly folded into stiff and unyielding pleats.

“Hello,” Findekáno said, feeling very young and very foolish beneath the weight of those eyes. 

“You should be abed,” the healer said, frowning at him. “Resting.”

“I… I will,” Findekáno said, wincing as he turned to face Endanáro properly. He could see a large flat table behind the other _ nér, _with a shape upon it that was covered by a white cloth, and he shuddered, hoping that was not Russandol but knowing it almost certainly was. “I will, I only - please, I have to see him.” 

Endanáro fixed him with a sharp, keen look. Findekáno was suddenly grateful for the dim light that perhaps would shield the fact that he was not truly making eye contact with the old healer, but was instead focusing on a spot just between his brows. If the trick was recognized, the other _ nér _ did not say so, and his face bore no sign of recognition; at last, he sighed and shook his head and turned back to the table. 

“He is sleeping, as ever,” he said, and Findekáno tried not to let his own sigh of relief be too loud as he hobbled awkwardly behind the white-robed _ elda. _

“Is that why it is so dark here?” he asked, coming to a halt at last beside the covered shape laid out in one corner of the room. His breath was short and labored, and he was beginning to see dark spots behind his eyes, and the burning pain in his wrist had spiked into a raw agony unlike anything he had ever felt before. He whimpered as he shifted his weight, and instantly regretted it when Endanáro glanced at him from across the table.

“It is dark here,” the healer said, “because we have only the one stone lamp that is bright enough for true work, and there is a team led by your brother and your cousin that is excavating out a false cave for a forge right now, and they need it.” 

“Oh,” Findekáno said, and turned his full attention to the covered shape before him. It looked more or less like Russandol had when he was rescued, but he could not be sure, and the fact that it was still and unmoving filled him with dread. He shivered, leaning against the table, and tried to resist reaching out to pull off the bone-colored cloth that looked too much like an unadorned burial shroud. 

“We removed this from his back,” Endanáro said, and withdrew an ugly black shape from a pocket of his robe. In the candlelight, at first, it was hard to make out, but Findekáno realized with a thrill of dread that he was looking at a massive claw as big as his palm. He swallowed hard, forcing back bile that rose up suddenly out of his gut. It would not do to be sick here and now, and especially not if it meant vomiting all over his poor husband. “And we repaired the break in his spine.”

“What?” Findekáno asked, at once horrified and glad that he had something to focus on. “What break?”

“His back had been broken at some point,” the healer told him. “It was a delicate bit of improvised Song - my first on these hither shores, in fact - but I think he will walk again.”

“You think?” 

“I cannot know for sure until he wakes, _ haryon-nînya.” _

“Why is he covered thusly? Is - he is not dead, you said he needed to wake - !”

“The light is too bright for him,” Endanáro answered. “He does not wake, or make a sound, but he has taken to responding to things that distress him. Even this is too much.”

“Oh,” Findekáno said, shivering violently. “Oh.” 

“I’ll draw back the coverlet for a short while, though,” Endanáro continued, “so you can see his face. I assume you didn’t come all this way just to look at a body under a blanket.”

“I didn’t,” he replied, and tried and failed to laugh. _ Oh, Russo - ! _

In a moment, the cloth was drawn away, and folded neatly back so it lay across what he could now see were his husband’s shoulders. They were bare, as they had been on the mountain, but even in the dim light Findekáno could see that the filth and grime had been painstakingly cleaned from them, and that they - and probably every other inch of his whole _ hrõa _ \- were covered in delicate bandages. _ This is probably the whole of the stock we have been able to make, or trade for, _ he realized, and winced. _ He won’t like that, when he wakes. _

_ If he wakes. _

He had been stopping himself from doubting - it was useless, and foolish, to worry over something he had no control over, and besides, Russandol would live, he simply _ would _ \- but now, faced with the frightful evidence, he had nowhere to run to, and nowhere to bury his treacherous thoughts.

The _ nér _ before him was still, and silent, chest barely rising and falling, face covered by layers of gauze that still showed spots of blood here and there. His hair, which had fallen about his shoulders to his elbows, was shorn off very close to the scalp, and the wounds on his head which had been hidden by it were plain to see. Without the dirt to cover them, the bruises that could be seen between bandages stood out even more starkly, and his skin was nearly as white as the cloth that had covered him.

Russandol seemed to be dead. In fact, Russandol seemed to be _ so _ dead that it was easy for Findekáno’s frightened mind to twist itself up into wondering if the breathing he saw was only a trick of the light. And as that horror struck home, he found himself shuddering violently, and his heart was pounding in his ears. 

“What is it?” Endanáro asked, frowning at him from across the table. He shook his head, and wrenched himself back from its edge, back from the undeniable proof that recovery would be a miracle. 

“He..” Findekáno began, and cried out as the pain in his joints seemed to drive knives of white-hot iron into his flesh. The dark spots had grown to cover nearly the whole of his vision, and the world felt distant and airy and far away. 

_ “Haryon _Findekáno?” the healer tried again.

“He’s…” _ He’s dead, he must be, they are all lying to me, oh, Valar, Eru, Russandol - ! _

Whatever Findekáno had meant to say was lost. As he stumbled backward, his legs tangled up in one another and in the crutch he had been so reliant on, and he fell to the ground in a dead faint.

* * *

_ He dreamed of darkness, quiet and absolute, and of a vaulted, empty hall that seemed to cling to the absence of noise. The air was freezing and burning at once, every breath a contradiction, and somewhere far below him was fire. _

_ He was not alone. High above him, gleaming in the darkness and yet somehow not penetrating it, was a spark of something pale as starlight that seemed to divide into three as he gazed at it, and beneath it was a sleepless malice. There was no sound, even as the thing that bore the lights seemed to look outward far beyond the darkness of the hall; he hoped he had escaped notice. There was anger in the air, a fury to be reckoned with that seemed to ebb and flow but truly only hid itself beneath a veneer of civility, and it wound about him and seemed to bind him by the wrist and ankle to where he crouched. _

_ The thing that bore the lights looked at him, for a moment, and it was as if flesh and bone had been cleaved away in a single knifestroke, and he could hide nothing. If it was impressed, or angered further, or disgusted, it said nothing, and nothing changed; it only gazed at him, and then turned away. _

* * *

This time, when Findekáno awoke, it was with a low groan. He felt sick, and weak, and rather like he’d eaten something rancid and was now regretting it. 

“What happened?” he muttered, more to himself than anything. He rolled over onto his back, and found himself staring at the ceiling of his room in Mithrim yet again.

“You were sick,” a low voice said from the foot of the bed. 

He started up, entirely awake all of a sudden, and when the blood rushed to his head he groaned again and lay back on the pillows propped up behind him. His father sat in a wicker chair in front of him, with a lap desk propped up across the armrests and a stack of papers on top of it. 

“What?” Findekáno asked, remembering at the last second to keep his gaze fixed on Nolofinwë’s brow. 

“You went to see Nelyafinwë, and Endanáro said you fainted, and he carried you back here,” his father continued, turning over a sheet of paper covered in figures. “It has been two weeks; you have spent them either asleep or needing assistance to the privy.” 

“I… I don’t remember any of that.” 

“I doubt you would,” Nolofinwë said, almost chuckling. “You were entirely incoherent.” He set his work aside and looked up at Findekáno; his brown eyes were warm and concerned. “How are you? Really. You are grown, and above telling tales.”

Findekáno considered a pithy retort of _ I’m sick, you said so yourself, _but he knew what his father truly meant, and he found he could not conceal it any longer.

“I am wrecked, Atya,” he answered, lying back and looking up at the ceiling. “I… I am haunted by what I did on that cliff-face, and I am horribly guilty over all I did before that.”

“What do you mean? Your tale that you told us that first night is one of an honorable _ nér _who sought to save an old friend and, in doing so, heal a deep rift between our Houses.”

“My motives were not so selfless as that.”

“I am not a fool, _ yonya, _ and _ you _ are not a politician. You do nothing unless led on by your heart. But there is no harm in telling this story in a way that will benefit all of us.”

“You mean lying.”

“I don’t,” Nolofinwë said, and sounded offended. “How would _ you _ tell it, if asked?”

“‘Absolute Idiot Does Idiotic Thing For Love,’ obviously,” Findekáno said bitterly. “And now he might _ die _ and all of this will be in vain, and I - _ muk, ércala muk, _Atya, I - I deserted my people!”

“You did.”

“I forsook my place as prince, as heir, and by my actions I sent a very clear message that my duty did not matter!”

“You did that as well,” his father agreed, “and you frightened us horribly, and we had given you up for dead, and - !”

“How am I not locked away, clapped in irons and left to rot?”

“Findekáno,” Nolofinwë said calmly, “has it ever occurred to you that I trust you to have done this for a good reason?”

“I only did it because I love him!” he said, forcing himself to sit up and look at his father, and then he had to force his hands to cling to the bedclothes rather than clap themselves over his mouth in a vain attempt to catch what it had let slip and bring it back. He was shivering. Somewhere behind the shock and terror that had seized him, he realized he might have looked Nolofinwë directly in the eyes when he spoke. 

_ No, _ he thought, blinking back hot tears. _ No, it was not only my secret to tell, I cannot have done this! _

When he opened his eyes, he fixed them to the bridge of his father’s nose. _ I don’t know for sure that I looked at him, _ he thought, heart pounding. _ I might have dodged that pit. _ He couldn’t look away, even to lie back down. _ Please, anyone who is listening - I had one answered prayer, _ please _ let this be another… _

“Of course you love him,” his father said, rising from his seat and leaving the lap desk behind him. “He is family.” His robes were plain blue, and they made a sound like quiet rustling, and when he came to Findekáno’s side to put a hand on a still-trembling shoulder, they pooled about the seated _ eldar _ as if wrapping them both in the legacy of their family and the weight of the crown.

Findekáno sighed, from relief and fear, and let Nolofinwë put an arm about him. He rested his head on his father’s shoulder, still fighting back tears, and when he shut his eyes to keep them away he felt the embrace that held him grow tighter. 

“You did well,” his father said. “You did well, to bring him back, and I am proud of you.” 

With that, any semblance of control that Findekáno had was lost. He turned, clinging to his father, and buried his face in blue and wept.


	8. There Is No Going Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feast was originally going to be in this chapter, but it turned out to feel better as a standalone. So, in the meantime, enjoy a somewhat short interlude!

By the end of the day, Findekáno felt strong enough to try getting up on his own. The pain in his extremities had faded to a dull ache, and Amdis had promised him that if he did not overtax himself, he would be able to make as full of a recovery as could be hoped for. 

“You damaged your joints in ways we are unfamiliar with, and they did not take to Endanáro’s Song,” she told him when she came with yet another mug of tea. “So I couldn’t tell you how likely it is that you will be always free of any kind of hindrance. But you will walk again, and be more or less free of  _ pain, _ and that is something, is it not?”

“It is,” he agreed, smiling faintly at her and taking a sip of the steaming brew she had brought him. “Thank you, by the way. I am told you were more or less my constant companion.”

“Don’t thank me, I’m only an apprentice,” she replied, but she was smiling back at him. “And it - you are our prince, our heir, we could not just let you waste away and fade.”

“Was that a risk?” he asked, frowning and somewhat taken aback. “It was only pain and exhaustion from the journey, was it not?”

“So far as we can tell,” Amdis said, shrugging. “But you  _ were _ near Angamando, and Moringotto. And you were insensate in your sleep, as one dead.”

Findekáno shivered, not wanting to think on how close he might have come to perishing; instead he fixed a grin to his lips and hoped it stuck, and took another sip of his tea.

“My father was here briefly,” he said, and immediately regretted it, for thinking on his earlier conversation meant thinking on the fact that he might have betrayed his and Russandol’s secret; still, as of now, he was not being lectured, and so it was easy to ignore that, too. 

“I know,” Amdis answered. “He is the one who told me to keep an eye on you.” 

“Did he say anything else?” Findekáno asked, and then made a face and bit down hard on his tongue to keep from muttering curses under his breath.  _ Oh, that was stupid. Now she will be wondering why I asked.  _

But the apprentice healer seemed to think he was asking another sort of question entirely, for her answer came easily. 

“He wished for me to find out if you would be strong enough to attend the feast tomorrow evening,” she said. 

“Feast?” he asked, shocked. “What feast?”

“The one that has been scheduled for a week now, to commemorate your return from the north and your great deeds.”

“Oh, damn it,” he groaned. “I remember now. Írissë was saying something about that, or else Lalwendë was. Or both.” He shifted the mug he held into one hand and passed the other over his eyes. “Damn, damn, damn. I do not wish to feast.”

“Is it because you are still feeling poorly?” Amdis asked intently. Findekáno sighed, and shook his head, letting his hand drop again. 

“No,” he told her, and took yet another sip of tea. “I only - why? What did I do that was so impressive? All I have done is act the fool!”

“You went to Angamando alone and returned,” Amdis said quietly. Findekáno winced, and looked over his shoulder at her; she was looking down at her hands as she spoke. “You - you went there  _ alone, _ with no aid and nothing but a faint hope, and you  _ triumphed, _ you stole Moringotto’s prize from right under his nose.”

“... oh,” he said, swallowing the last of his tea.

“The whole camp knows the tale of your departure from this place under cover of darkness,” Amdis continued, looking up at him. He focused on the bridge of her nose, dodging eye contact. “How you fled from here with no food and no weapons and no gear, and how you scavenged to survive in the woods, and how you returned alive and successful. How - how can we  _ not _ feast? You are a hero of the sort that has not been seen since the Great Journey!”

“I…” Findekáno began, but found that his words had deserted him.  _ Me? _ he thought, and wanted to laugh, but looking at her face he couldn’t bring himself to scorn Amdis’s insistent declaration.  _ I am - I’m no  _ hero, _ am I? Heroes are - well, they are  _ heroic,  _ aren’t they? They are courageous, they are selfless, they endanger themselves for the sake of saving others’ lives, they do bold deeds without thought to the risks they take on, they -  _

_ \- ai, ercamando, ércalamando, I suppose I must be a hero.  _

_ Valar damn it all. _

_ “Haryon-nînya?”  _ Amdis asked, and Findekáno realized he had been staring at her nose for half a minute at least. He shook himself and sighed, blinking several times before dropping his gaze back to his tea and taking yet another drink. 

“I did not mean to become a hero,” he told the healer, and his voice was almost mournful. “I only - I just - !”

“You wanted to do what was right?” Amdis guessed, and a wan smile spread over his lips, more from effort than genuine emotion.

“We’ll call it that,” he said. “It… no one, even if he is a Kinslayer and an apostate and a traitor to his family, deserves to suffer so keenly.”  _ Especially if you love him, and even more especially if you have married him.  _

_ Which I have. And I hope he wakes soon, that we might discuss what to do about said marriage. I do not wish to live in secrecy forever. I do not even know if I  _ can.  _ And if I cannot, and my people do not accept us -  _

Findekáno winced, and finished off his tea.  _ Well. The less said about that the better, I think. _

He looked back up at Amdis, finding her eyebrow this time, and when he smiled again it was more heartfelt. 

“Tell my father that I will feel like attending,” he said, “provided I can find something to wear, and provided I can decide what to do with my hair. It cannot stay like this forever.” He tossed his head, feeling a few curls spill past his shoulders. “It will get knots and mats, and I refuse to cut it off, and there are no mirrors here large enough for me to do it alone, so…” He shrugged, and his grin widened into something genuine. “I am at an impasse. I would ask my brother, or my sister, but…” 

His voice trailed off, and he found himself suddenly blinking back hot tears. The last time his hair had been rebraided, it had been in Valannor, just after the Darkening. He had managed to slip away from his family for a day under the premise of needing to grieve, and he and Russandol had stolen a handful of glorious hours. Fëanáro and Istarnië had moved into the great house that had been Finwë’s alone, in an attempt to prepare for the assumption of the throne; the home that his husband had grown up in was deserted, and so it was easy enough to hide in old rooms and mourn what had been lost. Eventually, they had adjourned to the baths, lying side by side in the twin tubs that had belonged to the lord and lady of the house, and they had even managed to make a few jests at said lord and lady’s expense. But when the water was drained, and the soaps were rinsed from hair and body, and the last of the argan oil had been worked into his hair, it had needed to be fixed back into place, and Russandol had done it. They had spent the hours sitting on his husband’s childhood bed, pretending as if the world was not ending and this was any other day, and when it was over he was left with elegant twists of hair that resisted the wear and tear of daily life admirably.

He had kept those braids until the very night that he had come back to Mithrim. 

It was very likely that without a right hand, Russandol would never touch him thusly again.

_ Damn it, _ Findekáno thought.  _ I thought I was done weeping, and it seems I was wrong yet again.  _ His next breath was almost a sniffle, and he sighed and wiped his eyes.

“But you don’t want to trouble them,” Amdis said as gently as she could, “not with this. I understand.”

_ That is  _ not  _ the problem, _ Findekáno thought with uncharacteristic venom,  _ but what else can I say? _ He nodded, still looking at the apprentice healer’s brow, and when she reached out and put a hand on his shoulder he flinched.

“I’ll find someone who can braid your hair again,  _ haryon-nînya,” _ she told him. The confidence and warmth in her voice was almost enough to make him weep yet once more. 

“Thank you,” he told her, rather than snapping at her to leave him alone so he could mourn the loss of yet one more private joy.  _ I must be kind, _ he told himself.  _ I must be kind, they do not know, they  _ cannot  _ know until I have talked to him, if I ever  _ do _ talk to him, only -  _

_ \- only what good does any of this do? The hiding, and the constant fear of discovery, and all for what? The fact that I cannot even grieve the loss of something I barely had? Who - who will he  _ be  _ when he wakes, if he wakes at all? Will he love me? Will he loathe me for not slaying him as he begged me to? Will he - will he even  _ want _ me?  _

Findekáno had lost his battle with his tears, and he wondered what Amdis was thinking as she sat with him, or if she was thinking of anything at all.

_ I - I was an  _ idiot, _ wasn’t I?  _ he thought furiously.  _ I - I abandoned my people, I abandoned my place, I should have killed him, he  _ asked  _ me to kill him, and I was  _ selfish,  _ I spared his life, I could not bear to think of him so badly hurt and so greatly debased, and I do not know if he loves me still, and even if he  _ does,  _ nothing will  _ ever  _ be the same again! I thought - I thought all I had to do was - I thought saving him would be enough, and we could go on as we were, and - oh, Eru, he may not even walk, what sort of a life have I  _ given _ him? I am - he is -  _ ai, ercanyë _ \- ! _

He did not know how long he wept for, only that when it was over, Amdis was half-embracing him. 

“Are you all right?” she asked. “Are you in pain?” 

Findekáno drew away from her, sitting up again, and he took a deep breath as he prepared for yet another falsehood. Her face was kind, and her eyes were bright and warm like the tide pools about his cousins’ home in Alqualondë far away.

“Damn it,” he groaned. “I cannot lie to you. Yes, I am in pain, but it is a matter of the heart.”

“I guessed as much,” Amdis said to him. “You - you love him, don’t you.”

He let his gaze drop to his hands, which twisted themselves up in his shirt without much thought.

“Yes,” he said. “I do. Very much.”

“Oh,” the  _ nís _ beside him said softly, and there were years of gentleness in her voice. “Oh.”

This time, when he broke down and wept, both her arms went about him. 

“I won’t tell a soul,” she promised. “I won’t. You have my word as a healer.”

“It - that isn’t - ”

“I know,” Amdis said, “but I wanted to let you know your secret is safe with me.”

_ That is not my secret, not exactly, _ Findekáno answered her silently, but he said nothing save “I wish I would cease weeping. I - I know there is no shame in it, but when will I finally have no more tears to shed over this?”

“When enough time has passed that the wounds you have been dealt have scarred over,” the  _ nís _ told him sagely. 

“What?” Findekáno asked, extricating himself from her very careful embrace. “What do you mean?”

“This has clearly left a mark on your mind and your heart,” she continued. “And we still know very little about such injuries - we only know they last, and last, and must be cared for and treated like any other malady - but I can say with confidence that you ought not loathe yourself for the rise and fall of your moods.”

“I ought to be able to control this,” Findekáno answered, more than a little annoyed.

“But we are not merely  _ hröar,  _ or  _ fëar,”  _ Amdis said. “We are both. If the one can be injured, why not the other?” 

Findekáno found he had nothing to say to that, and so he only shrugged and looked thoughtful.

“I ought to go report to your father,” she finished, and moved back to the edge of the bed. “But - I will find someone to do your hair,  _ haryon-nînya.  _ Someone who is  _ not _ a sibling or an aunt.”

“Thank you,” he said. His gratitude was genuine - he had far too much hair to comb it out on his own with no mirror.

Amdis bowed at the waist before leaving the room, shutting the door behind her. Findekáno stretched more fully, once he was alone, and then moved to the opposite edge of the bed and swung his legs over the side. Looking down at himself, he was shocked - he had known, through the evidence of loosening clothes, that he had lost a significant amount of weight, but still he was shocked to find that he could see bones and tendons move beneath his skin.  _ Neither Amdis nor Lalwendë said anything, when I took that bath, _ he thought.  _ Perhaps they were frightened and assumed I had already realized how thin I have grown? Or perhaps I am disgusting to look upon, and they did not wish to alert me? _

His crutch was beside the bed, propped against the wall. He picked it up and tucked it under his arm and carefully rose up onto unsteady feet. Beneath the oversized shirt he wore - it was almost certainly one of Arakáno’s, saved from being lost with his brother by virtue of being carried by someone else - he was naked, and so when he looked down through the deep V of the garment’s neckline he realized he could see every bone in his body standing out stark against brown skin. 

“I look like an anatomical model,” he said aloud, “or like - ”

_ Like Russandol, _ he finished silently, but before he could be sick from the memory of the cliffside, there was a knock at the door. 

_ “Haryon  _ Findekáno?” an unfamiliar voice called. “May I come in?”

“Yes,” Findekáno answered, ceasing his self-examination and pivoting on his good ankle to face the door as it opened. He was greeted by a young  _ nér  _ who looked to be perhaps near to Artaresto in age, with pale skin and long straight dark hair. His eyes were bright and clear, and his expression was quietly respectful; one look at him, though, and it was clear that beneath the demure exterior was determination and tenacity.

“Hello,” he said, bowing at the waist and shutting the door again. “I was asked to come here by Amdis, to assist with your hair.”

“Oh, thank you,” Findekáno answered. “I think my family are all otherwise occupied; this is a great help.”  _ And my husband may never aid me again, so… _

“I’m glad to help,” the  _ nér  _ answered brightly, moving closer into the room. “Anything is to be preferred to the kitchens, and I am quite good with braiding and twisting.”

“Hm. Do I know you?” Findekáno asked, frowning as he made his way around the bed. The  _ nér  _ came to meet him; he was wearing a plain robe of pale blue over black breeches and scuffed boots. 

“We have met,  _ haryon-nînya,”  _ he said, “only - !”

“Wait,” Findekáno interrupted. He recalled a tall, willow-thin  _ elda  _ who had favored blue and black, and whose hair was just as straight and just as dark - a ropemaker, from a family of ropemakers, whose eyes were the same. “Súliwendë, isn’t it?”

“Súlwë, actually,” the  _ nér  _ corrected. “When last you saw me, I had a different  _ hröa;  _ I had been thinking of changing it for some time but the Ice was no place for such an expenditure of will.” He shrugged easily. “I did it while you were away in the north.” 

“I do apologize,” Findekáno told him, extending his hand that was not encumbered by a crutch. “I only knew you by your  _ amilessë.”  _

“We spoke only the once, lord,” Súlwë said, “but thank you. Now. What would you like done with your hair?”

“Something simple,” Findekáno answered, crossing the room to his closet. “Seeing as the feast is in a few hours. Perhaps if you don’t find my company entirely tiresome, you would help me someday to rebraid it properly?” He had moved into the small space, and was looking through his too-small collection of tunics and breeches. His elaborate robes had either been left behind, given away to those in need of another layer of insulation against the cold, or had been packed onto the ships, and so he was left with only a few bright colors to choose from. “Oh, what in Arda am I going to wear? This is dreadful.” 

“Dreadful?” Súlwë asked. “Why so?”

“Because my best tunic was the one I wore north, and I think it is probably unsalvageable.” He sighed, and shook his head. “It had silver embroidery on the sleeves, even.” 

Súlwë laughed, and then coughed. “My apologies,  _ haryon-nînya,”  _ he said. “It is only… look how far we have fallen.”

“Hah,” Findekáno answered, and held up a long-sleeved shirt in forest green. “This is a dreadful color but it is the only thing I have that does not scream ‘family dinner’; it seems I have little choice.” Súlwë was right, and it  _ was  _ more than a little funny - only sixty years ago he would have been looking over hundreds of richly embroidered silks and velvets, not desperately choosing between six different colors of plain linen. But this was the reality of his life now, and complaining would do nothing. 

“If you wore all black with the shirt,” the other  _ nér  _ volunteered, “and if I braided your hair through with a green ribbon, perhaps?” 

“Hm,” Findekáno said, considering. The shirt was wide-sleeved until the cuffs, which buttoned tight about his wrists, and if he unlaced the neckline it would be a deep V that fell off his shoulders, held in place by a drawstring that ran through the uppermost part of the laces all through the top of the garment. He could see where it fastened at his back; he could not help but imagine Russandol undoing the knot and the light linen falling down about his shoulders to elbow and waist, and the warmth of lips at the nape of his neck. The thought made him shiver, and then sigh, for one hand meant even that pleasantry might be denied to him.  _ You are being ridiculous,  _ he told himself.  _ Doubtless he can do anything that you wish for him to do.  _

_ Except braid my hair.  _

_ “Heru-nînya?”  _ Súlwë asked; Findekáno flinched. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Yes. If you can find me a green ribbon, and I wear that pair of breeches I got from my brother that button up to my waist, so I can tuck this shapeless thing in? Yes, I think that will do nicely.”

“As do I,” Súlwë added, “though I don’t know if you will take the word of a ropemaker.”

“A ropemaker? No,” Findekáno said, tossing the shirt onto the nearby couch. “But the  _ nér  _ who suggested I pair green with black? Yes, I will take  _ his _ word for anything.”

Súlwë started back, surprised, but when he saw Findekáno’s grin he returned it. 

“Oh,” he said, almost blushing. “That - that was a  _ joke.” _

“Yes,” Findekáno answered, tossing out a pair of high-waisted black pants with gold buttons to join the green shirt. “It was. Now, to find my boots - well,  _ boot, _ as I doubt I can wear any shoe over  _ this.” _ He gestured to the plaster and gauze wrapping his ankle and foot. “But I can roll the pant leg up, or - oh, damn, these are  _ very _ well tailored, and there’s no way it will fit over the cast.” He sighed. “I’ll have to rip out the seams on the left side, I think, and then ask Turvo to restitch them. Can you find me a small enough knife to do that?”

“Are you sure?” Súlwë asked, looking at him with a somewhat dubious expression.

“My other option is to attend dinner with no pants.”

The other  _ nér  _ let out a sharp bark of laughter, and shook his head. “You certainly can’t do that; someone will have my head, probably Endanáro.”

“The chief healer?”

“He’s been doing double duty as your father’s valet, ever since Rúsëalón perished on the Ice.”

“Really?” Findekáno asked, wincing.  _ No wonder it was Atya who came to see me when I woke... _

“Yes, really,” Súlwë said. “Rumor has it he’s looking for someone to apprentice in especial, that they might take over his role as head healer.”

“For the sake of being my father’s valet?”

“For the sake of a change of pace. He  _ is _ very old, and he has been a healer since before the Great Journey, I am told.”

“I’ve heard the same thing,” Findekáno said. “But still, healer to  _ valet?” _

“Who am I to judge?” Súlwë asked. “I was a ropemaker, and then I was a cook, and now? Who knows?”

“Who knows indeed,” Findekáno said with a shrug. “Can you find me that knife? And then I’ll dress, and then we can fix my hair.”

“Of course,  _ haryon-nînya,”  _ Súlwë said, bowing slightly. “I will be back directly.”

“Thank you,” Findekáno replied, sitting down on the couch beside his clothes. “Truly.” He glanced over at the other  _ nér _ and smiled at him. “You are a lifesaver.”

“Hardly,” Súlwë answered, moving back toward the closed door. “That is only you.”

“And now it is you who have made a joke.”

Súlwë looked back at Findekáno as he opened the door, and he seemed more than a little flustered. 

“You are - you are quite different from how I expected a prince to be,” he said, and it felt like a compliment; before he could be answered, though, he was gone.

* * *

It took the better part of three hours, but eventually, Findekáno was able to say he was ready to face the world again. Thanks to Súlwë, he was both dressed and groomed, with his hair in a neat Telerin braid down his back and a green ribbon bound through it. The breeches that had been Arakáno’s had the seams of the left leg cut up to the knee, to fit over his cast; there was a single black boot on his other foot. The gold buttons had been polished until they gleamed, and the green shirt looked almost dashing by his reckoning, when it lay over his arms and bared his chest in a deep V. 

_ It is a great tragedy that the only one I wish to admire me when I am dressed thusly is still asleep,  _ Findekáno thought as he assessed himself to the best of his ability and Súlwë put the finishing touches on his braid.  _ But I used to dazzle at parties. It would be a shame to disappoint now. _

“All done, I think,” the other  _ nér _ said, and stepped back from his prince’s shoulders where he had been brushing dust from the fabric. 

“Thank you,” Findekáno said. “Truly. I…” His voice trailed off, and he forced himself to smile rather than cry yet another time.  _ Russandol, please, wake up soon. _

“You are welcome,” Súlwë said. “I think you will cut a presentable figure at the feast, and I will not be a laughingstock behind closed doors.” 

“I am in need of a valet, you know,” Findekáno said, positioning his crutch under his arm. “I did not have one before, but as crown prince, I suppose it is time I assumed my station among our people.”

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me,” he answered, turning to face the other  _ nér. _ “I need a valet, and I do not  _ have _ a valet, and you have both good taste and nimble fingers.” 

“I - oh,” Súlwë replied, blushing slightly. “I suppose… I mean, I haven’t - ”

“Would you like to think on it?” Findekáno asked, hobbling across the floor toward the door. 

“Yes,” Súlwë answered gratefully. “Thank you,  _ haryon-nînya.”  _

“You are most welcome,” he said, fumbling with the latch on the door. “Now. Shall we face the dreadful torture that is a Noldorin feast?”

“With pleasure,” Súlwë said, flanking him to the right. “It has been too long since I ran that gauntlet of terror.”

“At least you will not be alone,” Findekáno told him, opening the door. “And I am told I am an excellent companion at even the most unfriendly of occasions.”

They were very nearly arm in arm as they left the room and stepped into the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Maicanduinë and to semperaeternumque for giving me feedback on Súlwë - your help and expertise was invaluable, and much appreciated!


	9. Hail the Victorious

The feast was held outside the doors of the great house, inside a large pavilion erected in the flat space before the shores of the lake. Findekáno wondered if it was purposefully placed where Sorontar had landed, or if that was some twist of fortune; regardless, the fabric and wood had been erected, and filled with torches and candles and whatever stone lamps had survived the crossing, and now there were trestle tables and long benches in the sand that only weeks ago had been torn up by talons as large as his arms. 

“This is large enough to hold all our host, though there are scores of us left - how did we find enough cloth for it?” he asked Súlwë as they descended the steps down to the rear entrance. “Were the Sindar unexpectedly generous? Were we blessed by Vairë with some strange gift?”

“Neither,” his companion answered, and pointed to the walls of the pavilion. “Look - it is crafted of our own tents, that we have been sleeping in.”

Findekáno started back, realizing in shock that Súlwë was right. He could see the seams and patchwork if he tried, though the fading daylight made it harder to tell where one canvas ended and another began.

“But - !” he began, only to be interrupted.

“This was not levied upon us by your father or anyone else,” Súlwë told him. “We wished to celebrate your deeds as one whole host. And it is warm, and the night is clear - sleeping under the stars as our fathers and grandfathers did in Cuiviénen, and as _ we _ did when we first arrived here, will not harm us.”

“But the tents - what if it grows cold again?”

“The seams and bindings that hold the pieces together can be cut easily, or unraveled; each person who gave up their sleeping-place has marked their cloth in a way that they will recognize.” 

“But… but _ why?” _

“Because you are a hero, _ haryon-nînya,” _ Sulwë said, glancing at him. They had stopped just before the open entrance, and before them was a low dais with the high table upon it, and then the other benches and tables beyond. Findekáno felt the eyes upon him as much as he saw them, though he did not turn to meet their gaze. _ Inside that pavilion are some two thousand _ eldar _ at least, _ he thought, doing his best not to shiver. _ They will all look upon me and hail me as a conquering hero, as a selfless and noble prince of my house. Are they right? _ Can _ they be right? I - I had no hope of saving him, not really, and I did not go forth into the night for the sake of my own heart alone. I could not let him suffer. Even if he does not love me, even though I truly cannot be _ certain _ that he had no hand in the burning of the ships. I could not leave him to torment and death and disgrace. _

Am _ I a hero, then? _

The thought chilled him, not least because he could not argue it. Surprisingly, no tears came; instead, he took a deep breath, and then another, and steeled himself for the incoming ordeal.

“I suppose I must be,” he answered Súlwë, and his grimace was very nearly turned into a faint smile by the time they walked into the bright lights of the feast. 

Immediately, he was spotted, though not by anyone he was expecting.

_ “Atarháno _Findekáno!” a high voice called, and he looked to his left to see Itarillë scrambling out of her seat. She almost fell off the dais in her mad dash to throw her arms about his waist, and she hit him with enough force to make him stagger backward.

“Hello!” he said, laughing and looking down at her. She was wearing a dress of pale lavender linen, and there were white flowers braided into her hair. “You look lovely.”

“You didn’t come to see me!” she protested indignantly, ignoring his compliment. “You’ve been back for weeks and you haven’t seen me once!”

“I’m sorry, Itarillë,” he answered. “I’ve been sick.”

“Sick?” she asked, stepping back from him confusedly. “Did you eat something bad?” 

“No,” he said. “But I had a long journey, and I was very tired, and every one of my bones ached.” This last sentence was punctuated with several exaggerated gestures at himself; his _ hánoanel _burst into a fit of giggles that she then tried to suppress in favor of being a proper lady, and her grievance was forgotten. 

“You should sit beside me!” she told him, seizing his plaster-wrapped hand in both of hers. “Please?”

“Well,” he answered, “I don’t yet know where my own _ atar _ wants me to sit, but if he has not assigned me a place, I will.”

“Oh, good!” Itarillë said. “You’re the only one who’s any _ fun _ at these things.”

Súlwë chuckled behind him; Findekáno smiled. 

“I’m sure you’re being too kind,” he replied.

“I am _ not _ ,” Itarillë answered, and then lowered her voice. _ “Atya _ is depressed, and _ atarnésa _Írissë has been so quiet, and most days the Arafinwëans don’t eat with us, so I can’t see Artaresto.”

“Oh,” Findekáno answered, and he let her lead him awkwardly up onto the dais. He glanced over at Súlwë apologetically. 

“You’re - I mean - thank you,” he said. “As you’re not my valet yet it’s rather awkward to dismiss you, only - !”

“Oh, no, _ haryon-nînya, _ I think I’ll stay,” the other _ nér _answered. 

“What?”

“You need someone to be a cupbearer, and assist in serving you, don’t you?”

“Um,” Findekáno replied, and glanced around the pavilion. There were some people bustling in and out with benches still, and the far edges of the seats were beginning to fill up with soon-to-be celebrators, but he did not see anyone in anything resembling formal servers’ livery.

“The social order has been put somewhat out of place by all of this unpleasantness,” Súlwë told him. “I am not hungry myself, not yet. I would be happy to serve.”

Findekáno nodded. _ Ever since we left home, things have been turned quite on their heads, _ he thought. _ I suppose it is time we returned to normalcy. _

“Yes,” he agreed, smiling faintly, eyes fixed on the other _ nér’ _s forehead. “Please. I - I would be most grateful, so long as it isn’t any trouble.”

“You’re the guest of honor,” Súlwë told him as he began to look for his father in the bustling preparations. “It isn’t any trouble at all.”

“Still,” Findekáno said, “since you aren’t officially in my employ yet - !”

“Ah, _ onóro,” _ a voice interrupted him. “I am glad you are able to join us.” 

He glanced over his shoulder to see his younger brother stepping up onto the dais from the left side. Turukáno was wearing a dark blue tunic that reached to his knees over pale leggings and brown boots, and his hair was loose about his shoulders.

“Hello, Turvo,” Findekáno said brightly. “It is rather lovely to be feeling more like myself.” 

“Good,” the other _ nér _ said. “Is Itarillë bothering you?”

“No,” he replied, smiling at the_ wendë _who was still holding fast to his hand. “Not at all. I was going to sit beside her, actually.”

_ “Atar _wants you on his right,” his brother informed him. “I’ll be on his left, and Itarillë will sit on the other side, with Artaresto beside her.”

“Ah,” Findekáno said, and glanced down at his _ hánoanel _ ruefully. “Perhaps the next time we have dinner?” he asked her, and she let his hand drop.

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe, since you’re back, we’ll all start having dinner together again.” 

“Somehow I doubt that,” Findekáno said sadly, glancing up through his eyelashes at Turukáno, who was stony and silent. But he didn’t elaborate further, even when she looked at him curiously; rather than agitate his brother, he silently hobbled along to his assigned chair and sat down in it with only a little difficulty. Soon enough, Írissë joined him, sitting on his right, with Lalwendë following soon after to sit on _ her _right. Finally, his Arafinwëan cousins filed in, dressed in pale yellows and whites and looking distinctly prouder than everyone else seated thus far; Findaráto sat beside Lalwendë with Angaráto on his other side at the end of the table, while Artaresto, Artanís, and Aikanáro took up the last three seats on the left. By now, nearly every table was full, and the pavilion was no longer quiet but buzzed with polite conversation and excited whispers. The only person missing was his father.

“I wonder how long we’ll have to wait,” Írissë murmured to Findekáno after a handful of minutes had passed. By now, every bench was lined with eager _ eldar _ awaiting the start of the festivities, and every cup and goblet and horn had been filled from several barrels in one corner of the pavilion. “Any longer and _ Atya _ will have a bit of an uproar on his hands.”

“If he isn’t here soon, I will make some sort of announcement,” Findekáno answered, looking out over the crowd and feeling his heart begin to pound. _ I never enjoyed public speaking. It serves me right, I suppose, that I must now give speeches. _

Just as he began to puzzle over what he would say, however, the assorted host fell silent and rose out of their seats as if on command. Automatically, Írissë and the rest of his family followed, and as Findekáno joined them awkwardly there was a steady hand on his shoulder. He looked over to see the blue and silver robes of the High King, now devoid of mourning embroidery, stretching up to drape over broad shoulders.

Nolofinwë had at last arrived, and stood behind his high-backed chair.

“I will not make a long speech of this,” he said, voice even and calm but carrying to every corner of the pavilion. “We are gathered here in joy and amity, and so I think it would be best if I kept things brief - not least because I can smell the venison from here.” This got him a polite laugh; Findekáno saw the corner of his mouth quirk upward in a near-smile. 

“Tonight, we celebrate many things,” he continued. “It has been some seven hundred of these new days and nights since our arrival on the hither shores of the world, and we are not languishing in despair. Instead, we grow, and thrive, and work as one to craft homes for ourselves. We have learned the crops to plant here, and mastered an unfamiliar tongue to trade with our long-estranged brethren who dwell in the woods and the forests, and despite our near proximity to our cousins across the lake, there have been no injuries or disputes that have led to bloodshed and strife. That, I think, would be reason enough to feast, and yet we have still more to uplift and give thanks for. My eldest son,” he said, and Findekáno did his very best not to wince as all eyes turned to him, “your crown prince, has returned to us after a long absence and a fearsome quest which he embarked upon for the sake of peace between our Houses. Alone, and at great risk to life and limb, and with no certainty of success, he crossed the mountains and went north to Angamando to bring back our esteemed cousin, the _ condo _Nelyafinwë Fëanárion, who had been kept in cruel bondage and thraldom by our enemy.” 

The silence turned cold, and sour; Findekáno could tell that quite a lot of the assembled _ eldar _ felt that Russandol probably deserved whatever he got, and even those who looked upon him with favor - which was, he had to admit, more than half the crowd before him - seemed more pleased at the thought of his supposed valor than the fact that he had been valorous in the name of a traitor. 

“I know many of you will wonder why this deed was done,” Nolofinwë said, casting his eyes out over the pavilion. Findekáno noticed that many seemed ashamed of their obvious vitriol, even looking away from his father; that, at least, gave him comfort. “And I will say that it was done for the sake of unity, and fellowship between our people and theirs, and peace on these shores.” He paused, taking a deep breath; he was unshakable when he spoke again, and his voice was heavy with purpose and gravitas.

“It was not only my own family that was torn asunder by Fëanáro’s betrayal,” he said. The tone of the silence that cloaked him changed instantly - it was as if the mood of the crowd was a thing he could predict and catch and hold. Findekáno realized as if for the first time that his father might not have had his _ atarháno’s _ gift of fiery rhetoric, but he was a master of quiet persuasion. 

“Many of you lost someone,” Nolofinwë continued. “Parents, siblings, friends, children. They dwell less than a day’s journey from us, and yet the rift between our kindreds seems nearly impassable. But we must find a way to do just that - we cannot have bloodshed and death and yet more anger dividing us still. They are our people, our family in bond if not in blood, and what’s more, we cannot hope to oppose Moringotto without them.” 

The listening _ eldar _ were silent and watchful, listening to every word. Findekáno spotted a few of them even nodding in assent.

“We shall have peace,” his father said at last, gesturing to the host and to those at the high table. “We shall douse the fires of enmity, and offer forgiveness, should they be amenable. And if they are _ not, _then we will be cordial, and fair, and we will hold ourselves to a higher standard than theirs in our dealings with them. And so, to mark this new beginning, and to celebrate a deed that will no doubt be renowned as long as our people endure on this or any other shore?” He reached down to the table and picked up his goblet, which was full very nearly to the brim. “We feast!”

For a heartbeat’s worth of time, the silence held, and then the pavilion filled with the sounds of cheering and hearty approval as the other _ eldar _ all seized their own cups and mirrored his toast. Once that was done, everyone sat down again, considerably more animated and cheerful. Findekáno wondered if the resentment and bitterness that he had perceived earlier was truly gone, or merely buried by good humor and the promise of a fine meal. But there was very little time to think, for almost immediately, Súlwë and several others moved up onto the dais behind the seated royal family to retrieve the empty plates that were before their chairs. 

“That was a good speech,” he said to Nolofinwë as soon as their attendants had stepped away. He could not be certain that his father knew the truth, even now; he chose to look at forehead and brow rather than warm brown eyes. 

“It was not my best,” his father admitted, “and it was rather off the cuff. I chose to forego my planned remarks and I fear I was less than eloquent.”

“You were convincing enough for me,” Lalwendë commented, leaning forward so that her brother could see her. He chuckled. 

“I am always convincing enough for you.”

“That is because you are a gifted rhetorician in your own right, _ onóro-nînya, _despite your refusal to see it.”

“I am a poor imitation of Fëanáro,” Nolofinwë replied, and she scoffed and took a drink from her goblet.

“You will never see your worth for what it is if all you can do is compare yourself to him,” she said. “So _ stop.” _

“As you wish,” he answered, laughing when he saw how Findekáno and Írissë were watching them. “I am properly chastised.”

“Not quite,” Lalwendë retorted as he raised his own goblet to his lips. “You’d need your wife for that.”

This very nearly made Nolofinwë lose his composure mid-sip; it was obviously a struggle to keep from bursting out into laughter and choking on his drink.

_ “Lal,” _he said when he had swallowed, but she was laughing with him.

“I won’t say anything more, don’t worry,” she said, sitting back in her chair and turning to Findaráto, who had been talking with his brother.

“You see what awaits you?” Nolofinwë asked Findekáno drily. “All younger sisters are the same.”

“They are not,” Írissë retorted. _ “I _ would not have held my tongue.”

Before Findekáno could reply with something suitably witty, Súlwë was beside him again, returning his plate to its place. He found himself looking down at a hearty portion of venison, roots and tubers and onions covered in spices and roasted until they were brown, and a sauce made of some sort of fruit. The smell made his mouth water.

“This cannot have been easy to organize,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, but his father heard him and answered. 

“It was not,” the High King said, “but we needed something more than digging and building and planting. There has not been time for merrymaking and cheer since our arrival here in this place, not until now.”

“What did we have to trade for these spices?” Findekáno asked. “I hope the price was not too steep.”

“It was not,” Írissë said. “Artaresto arranged everything.”

“Did I hear my name?” the youth in question asked, and Findekáno glanced down the table to see his cousin peering out toward them.

“Yes,” he said, keeping his eyes locked on pale forehead and golden hair. “I was wondering how many of our people are enthralled to the Sindar in exchange for spices and - I assume - for whatever it is we are drinking, as I was under the impression that our own barley and wheat had not yet reached a point where we had enough of a surplus to brew anything at all, and this is clearly not wine.” He looked down at his goblet, frowning. “Actually, what _ is _ this, Artaresto? I have never seen the like of it before.”

“Oh,” the other _ nér _ said, “I’ve taken to calling it _ távananda.” _

“Tree-mead?” Írissë asked.

“Yes,” their cousin replied. “It is fermented from the sweet sap of trees that grow deeper in the forest. They have been making it for a very long time - without light, they could not grow grain or grapes to turn to ale or wine, you see.”

“That’s quite ingenious,” Nolofinwë said. “I would not say I am _ fond _ of the taste? But it is also new to me; with time, I am sure I could call it a fine drink.”

“What you mean, _ Atya, _ is that you hate it but you’re too polite to say so,” Írissë said. “And I cannot blame you. It is an odd sort of thing. But I am grateful beyond measure for the chance to get properly drunk again, so I cannot complain, can I?”

“This is my victory feast,” Findekáno told her, though he was half-smiling. “Please try not to disgrace yourself too much.”

“Disgrace myself?” his sister answered. “Hardly. Now, getting pleasantly lightheaded and spending the singing in the lap of some fair _ wendë? _That is another thing entirely.”

“I told you,” Nolofinwë said cheerfully as she turned her attention to her food. “Younger sisters? All the same.”

Findekáno laughed, and turned his full attention to his food. 

There was only one _ lárëa _ course served, but enough had been prepared for everyone to have several helpings, and he found himself faced with the reality that he could not remember the last time his stomach had been truly full. Even in the early weeks before his journey north, his family had dined as sparsely as anyone else; there had been precious little to share. But now, it was almost as if they were back in Aman, even though this was a paltry affair compared to the sumptuous dinners and balls that had been fixtures of his life before. _ I am glad I am not spoiled, at least, _ he thought, and when he swallowed the last of his _ távananda _ he nodded to himself in satisfaction. _ I have taken to a reversal of my fortune far better than I could have ever guessed. That, at least, is something to be proud of. _

Once his plate was cleared for the third time, Súlwë appeared seemingly out of nowhere to take it and bring it back heaped with nuts and sweet cheeses and a pastry made of thin layers of dough soaked in honey and chestnut cream. This, then, was the _ lissë _ course, meant for savoring in between glasses of whatever _ nenvalaina _was offered while minstrels did their work.

“Oh, thank the Valar,” Írissë said. “I have missed _ láramasta _ dearly.” She pulled her plate closer to her, picking up fork and knife and immediately devouring the pastry. _ “Ai, Elentári, _ that is _ good!” _

“Someone is enjoying herself,” Nolofinwë said drily, smiling at his daughter. “But - I have news for you, Findekáno.”

“News?” he asked nervously. The cheese in his mouth seemed to turn to ash; he swallowed painfully. “What news?” 

“Only this,” his father said, and there was a warm undercurrent to his voice. “Nelyafinwë is going to live.”

Findekáno dropped his fork, coughing on the cheese that had been trapped mid-swallow by his shock. Nolofinwë gave him a solid clap on the back, which was enough to set things right; he swallowed properly and downed a large mouthful of _ távananda _ to ensure no such accident would happen again.

_ “Mana?” _he managed at last, looking up at his father’s nose and cheekbone. 

“I came here from Endanáro and the bathhouse,” Nolofinwë explained. “He has not only had the last of his surgeries, but many of his open wounds have closed and begun to heal. We cannot be _ certain _ until he wakes, of course, but…” He smiled at his son. “It seems the worst is over.”

Findekáno let out a breath he had not even known he was holding in. The world seemed to pitch and upend around him, tilting on its edges. _ Live, _ he thought, again and again. _ Live, live, live, he will live, he will _live - !

“I,” he began, and found his eyes were filled with tears. “I am - I am glad, _ Atya, _ I am glad beyond measure, I am _ so _ glad.” He was more than that - he would have leapt onto the table and shouted for joy, if his ankle would have permitted it. _ Live! Live! He shall live! _

_ No, _ he told himself futilely, feeling the grin spread over his lips, _ you must be calm, you cannot be glowing and bright and instantly cheerful, someone will notice, someone will see! _

_ And who cares if someone sees? _ he retorted, taking another drink. _ This is a feast, I am the guest of honor, and I have been told that I will not have to wait for the Halls to see the love of my life again! Let me be joyous, let me be ebullient as I once was. Only if for a night. _

He nodded, satisfied, and let himself smile out at the room. On the ground, and to his right, was a cluster of musicians, bearing harp and pipe and a crudely made _ tungaquerma; _they began a bright and lively song that was still quiet enough to permit conversation. 

“More _ távananda, haryon-nînya?” _

Findekáno flinched, looking over his shoulder to see Súlwë there. 

“I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “But I noticed you were nearly holding an empty goblet.”

“Oh,” Findekáno said, and almost giggled, and wondered when he had become so giddy. “Yes. Please. Maitimo is going to live; this is a night for celebration indeed!”

“Live?” Súlwë said, and he was clearly shocked. “You mean there was doubt before?”

“Yes,” Findekáno said. “When I saw him last, there was a great deal of doubt.” _ And it very nearly killed me, _ he added silently, passing his goblet to the other _ nér. _

“That - that is good news, isn’t it?” Súlwë asked, bowing slightly when he took the cup.

“Yes,” he answered. “Very good news.”

His companion nodded, and stepped back off the dais effortlessly as if he had been serving at table all his life; Findekáno could not help but be impressed. And, if his father’s attentive gaze was any indication, he was not the only one.

“You need a valet,” Nolofinwë remarked as Súlwë made his way to the piled barrels in the corner of the pavilion. 

“I do,” Findekáno said. “It is time I grew out of childhood. I hear you’ve taken on Endanáro, when he is not busy with R - with Maitimo.”

“I have,” the High King said. “He is an amicable companion, and old and wise enough to make me feel young, which is no small thing.”

“Why does he want to leave the healing arts behind him?”

“Beyond the fact that he has been a healer since long before my birth?” Nolofinwë asked. “In truth - and I ask you to be discreet, as there will be a proper ceremony sooner rather than later - it is because he has decided to marry, and he wishes to try for a different path in life. New shores mean new beginnings, after all.” 

“And he has decided to be your valet?”

“He has decided to try it, for a time, and see if it suits him. If it does _ not, _there is another I would offer the position to.”

“May I ask who?” Findekáno inquired, pausing for Súlwë to return his newly-filled goblet to the table.

“There is a youth - he has taken the name of Isilórë for a _ kilmessë, _ to match his sister’s Anorórë - who has been assisting Turukáno with the diggings and the construction of more permanent buildings in our camp,” his father said. “He is very far in the back of the pavilion, so I will not point him out and draw attention to him, but he is keen-eyed and quick-minded and dextrous and nimble with his hands. He has very little confidence in himself, but he is skilled in song and crafting, and I think I could shape him into a fine _ nér _given the chance. His mother died on the Ice, and his father remained in Aman, and he is only newly come to his majority; he is in dire need of guidance.”

Findekáno nodded, and took a forkful of _ láramasta _ and chewed it thoughtfully.

“You are a first-rate _ atar, _ did you know that?” he asked in between bites. Relief was welling up in his chest - relief that he was not interrogated, or scorned, or hated, or met with fury and blazing anger for betrayal, and relief that even if he had failed to keep this most precious of all his secrets he would not be cast out from his family. Nolofinwë did not answer him; there was an odd look on his face that was somewhere between warmth and pride and confusion. 

“I mean it,” Findekáno said, once he had swallowed. “Fëanáro would have probably murdered me, if I had been _ his _ son and I did this. And - and you do not _ have _to seek out those in need of guidance, to mentor them, but you do, and - oh, I am getting drunk, and losing all eloquence.”

“I am glad you are not his son,” Nolofinwë told him, and for a moment his voice was strained and tired, weary under the burden of many years in Fëanáro’s shadow. “He would not deserve you, if you were, and I would probably attempt to take you from him.”

“It would have been you holding the sword,” Findekáno said with a low laugh, “and it would have happened at my birth.”

“You jest, but I would have,” his father answered, taking a bite of his own _ láramasta. _His eyes were bright with mirth. “And I would have been the banished one, surely.”

“All for my sake?” Findekáno asked, laughing again. “I am not worth such grand sacrifices, surely.”

Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, and his father’s expression was solid and serious. 

“You are worth far more than you think, _ yonya,” _he said. “You ought to value yourself more highly.”

Findekáno could not argue with this, nor could he muster enough will to change the subject; he forced an awkward smile and returned his attention to his plate as the music swelled around them, carrying the pavilion forth into the night.

* * *

Many hours of merriment later, when the last of the revelers had stumbled off to their beds under the stars, all that remained in the pavilion to indicate it had been filled with light and song was a low-burning brazier in the far corner. It, too, was slowly losing itself, turning from open flame to dying embers, but it still gave off warmth, and so it was surrounded by three _ néri _ who had not yet lost the battle against sleep and dreaming. They were solemn, and somber, and very, very drunk. They drank still, passing around a nearly-empty bottle of _ távananda _as they spoke; their voices were low and bitter.

“I don’t understand why he’s been allowed to live at all,” the first one said, taking a drink from the bottle and passing it to his right. “He’s a traitor.”

“The High King won’t execute him, Artanen,” the _ nér _ who took the bottle said. “He has to keep his hands clean, after all, else we might all get slaughtered.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to _ like _ it,” their third companion interjected, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “Did you hear that speech he gave? Calling for _ peace, _ with _ them? _Disgraceful, if you ask me.”

“More than disgraceful,” Artanen agreed. “How can he say that after all we have suffered? After your wife froze in her shoes, Aryaráto? Or you, Ailinwë - your sons died for this? For our High King to barter with our torturers, to keep one of them from death? For his son, our Crown Prince and the jewel of all our people, to _ save _ him from a well-deserved punishment?”

“At least he will die soon,” Ailinwë said, shaking his head and watching his two friends from across the coals. “And we will have some measure of vengeance.”

“Hah!” Aryaráto laughed, taking a drink and passing the bottle. “As if even that torment could be vengeance enough for all our losses.”

“You know he’s going to die, then?” Artanen asked Ailinwë.

“I know that’s what half the healers said two days ago.”

“Good,” Aryaráto said, nodding as Artanen took a drink. “That’s good.”

“What is good?” a fourth voice asked, and the three friends glanced up to see a slender figure stepping into the pavilion. 

“Oh,” Ailinwë said, nodding. “Hello, Súlwë.”

“Hello,” the _ nér _ answered, letting the tent flap fall back behind him. “I came to see if you were still here - it is very late, and I think in the morning they mean to begin to disassemble this pavilion.”

“Thank you, _ ammë,” _Aryaráto said, grinning mirthlessly; he was more than a little drunk. “We will be gone soon enough.”

“Where were you all night, anyway?” Artanen asked. “Did you eat at all? You weren’t sitting with us.”

“No,” Súlwë admitted, “I wasn’t. I wasn’t hungry; I went out to the lakeshore and thought.”

“That’s our Súlwë,” Ailinwë said almost derisively. “Always thinking.” 

“You ought to try it sometime,” he answered.

“Oh, we are,” Artanen said, and there was an unkind light in his eyes. “We are toasting the soon-to-come death of that miserable fop of a _ nér, _Nelyafinwë.”

“Death?” Súlwë asked. “What do you mean? He’s going to live.”

The other three _ eldar _went deadly silent.

“Excuse me?” Aryaráto said at last.

“He’s going to live,” Súlwë said. “I heard it from someone who spoke to Endanáro directly, earlier today.”

“Oh, Valar _ damn _ it!” Artanen swore, and dashed the bottle and what was left of its contents against the brazier. It shattered, spraying _ távananda _ and glass, but he ignored it. “Damn, damn, _ damn! _ How _ dare _he get to live!”

“He has suffered greatly,” Súlwë said hesitantly. “Surely that is penance enough?”

“Oh, Súlwë, you were always too soft,” Artanen said bitterly. “You don’t see it, do you? Our High King is _ forgiving _ them, our Crown Prince is enspelled by one of them - soon, we will be joining our hosts again, and it will be as if none of this even _ happened!” _ He groaned. “Every _ ércala elda _in this camp except us four seems to think it’s all well and good for him to live. I hope Námo rots in his Halls.”

“Since we know better than to think this is a good thing,” Aryaráto said suddenly, “who says we cannot kill him ourselves?”

“You are drunk, Aryaráto,” Súlwë interjected immediately, but Ailinwë and Artanen ignored him.

“That fool Endanáro stays with him through the night, and might raise the alarm, or sing us into the ground,” Artanen said, “but I’ve seen him leave the bathhouse before dawn more than once. There is at least a little time when that monster is alone and unprotected.”

“And we all have our knives still,” Ailinwë said gravely. “I would not condone this, in better times, but - !”

“But it is not better times,” Aryaráto said, cutting him off. “It is not better times, and so we must act, to save our people and the whole _ ércala _royal family from this.”

“Go to bed,” Súlwë said. “The lot of you. Please. You are more drunk than I have seen you in a long time, and you are not thinking clearly, and - !”

“Shut _ up, _ Súlwë!” Artanen demanded, reaching out awkwardly with one hand and shoving him back. “We’re - we are - _ not _ drunk!”

“And even if we were,” Ailinwë said, “we’d still be right.” He was grim, and cold, and his voice shook with anger and grief. “This has been a long time coming. Ever since those damned ships burned.”

“You don’t have to help us, if you haven’t got the stomach for it,” Aryaráto informed him.

“You don’t,” Artanen said, “but if you tell anyone, you might just wind up dead alongside that sorry excuse for a prince.”

Súlwë flinched, stepping back from the brazier and the three conspirators. His heart was pounding in his ears, and he felt sick. 

“All - all right,” he said. “All right. I understand.”

Before they could say anything more, he turned on his heel and fled back through the pavilion, almost running out the rear entrance towards the great house.

* * *

_ “Haryon-nînya _Findekáno?”

The words were soft, and hesitant. Findekáno groaned, stirring; he had been in some dream of bright water and strange half-_ eldar _ half-fish _ néri, _ and he was slow to wake. _ Maybe I dreamed that, _ he thought, rolling over to a cooler part of his pillow. _ Maybe I will go back to sleep. _

“I’m - I’m sorry, _ haryon-nînya, _but you must wake up.”

He gasped in air, and opened his eyes, turning onto his back. There was someone bent over him with a candle in hand, and the light cast flickering shadows across the walls and floor.

“Who…” Findekáno groaned, and then blinked and frowned at the unexpected visitor. “Súlwë? What - what is - ?”

“I am so sorry to wake you,” the _ nér _said, and he was trembling badly enough that the candle was shaking. “I am - I did not - I cannot think of who else to go to, forgive me.”

That drew Findekáno totally out of sleep. He sat up, looking sharply at Súlwë. 

“Sit down,” he said. “Tell me what has happened.”

The _ nér _nodded, and Findekáno realized there were tears in his eyes as he settled on the edge of the bed. 

“I - I have some friends,” he began. “Or else, I thought they were my friends, but I cannot call them thusly now. They - they have been grieving, and hurt, and bitter, ever since the Ice. They all lost someone. And tonight, they…” He shuddered, and took several frightened breaths, and continued. “They mean to kill _ condo _Nelyafinwë.”

Findekáno felt as if his heart had been pierced through by a blade of pure ice. By the time he could move again, his mouth had fallen open in shock, and his whole body was shaking, and he was instantly sick with terror. 

_ No, _ he though at last. _ No, they can’t, they _ can’t _ \- oh, I was a fool to bring him here, I was the worst sort of idiot, I - I might have fled to the Sindar, oh Halls, oh Valar damn it, Eru damn it - I am, once again, the worst sort of idiot, and I cannot even _ defend _ him while I am injured, and - _

_ \- Atya. _

Suddenly, he remembered his father’s speech at the feast - the calls for peace, for reconciliation - and he found himself certain of what had to be done.

“Rouse my father,” he said, looking at Súlwë. “There may be a guard by the door; his name is Alcarinquar Laurëfindil. Tell him I sent you, and that it is a matter of life and death, and he will wake my father and then you can tell him all you know. I am a mess of fright and helplessness, and I cannot stop this.” Another spike of fear stabbed through his chest, and he swallowed hard. “Is it - it cannot be happening _ now, _ can it?”

“No,” Súlwë said. “Else I would have gone straight to the bathhouse to stop them. They mean to strike just before dawn, when Endanáro abandons his nightly vigil.”

_ “Muk,” _Findekáno swore. “All right. All right. I - I will wait for my father’s orders, and you must be quick. We - we can stop this.” 

“We can,” Súlwë said, though he did not sound convinced. He bowed, more out of anxiety than aught else, and blinked back more fearful tears, and left, closing the door behind him. 

No sooner was he gone than Findekáno seized his pillow from its place, buried his face in it, and screamed. When his lungs at last emptied of air he threw the pillow across the room, hearing it hit the door with a soft _ thud; _he was bent double at the waist and shaking so badly his vision was blurred.

_ I couldn’t protect him, _ he thought, terror seizing him as it had not since he first learned of Russandol’s captivity. _ I couldn’t - I tried, I _ tried, _ and I couldn’t! What good am I as a husband if I cannot safeguard the one I love most? What good am I as a prince, as a future king? I ought to have died in those mountains. I am _ worthless, _ and none may argue it - I brought back my beloved into a den of wolves waiting to devour him, and I did not even _ know _ I had done it! Damn me, _ damn _ me! _

At last, he could summon no more horrified self-loathing. When he managed to take a proper breath again, he fell back against the mattress, staring out into the dark, hoping against hope that warning had not come too late.

_ Russandol, _ he thought miserably, _ I am sorry, I am so sorry. _

* * *

The sky was an odd grey color when the three conspirators at last reached the bathhouse. Endanáro had left by the main door, as always, and they had waited another half hour before deciding that any more delay would mean waiting until the next day. 

“All right,” Artanen said under his breath. He was still very drunk, and becoming more obviously intoxicated as he moved. “Let… let’s do this.”

“Yes,” Ailinwë agreed, and Aryaráto nodded his assent. 

“Let’s put an end to this foul thing,” Artanen continued; he drew his knife and crept from the large gorse bush they hid behind towards the wooden structure. The rest of the conspirators followed behind him, stumbling and awkward, but they reached the door upright and without leaning on one another, and they counted that as something of a victory. 

The door opened easily, which surprised them; the rooms beyond were quite dark. 

“Come on,” Ailinwë muttered, stepping into the bathhouse first. Artanen was next, and then Aryaráto after; he shut the door again.

“Where is he?” Artanen asked, taking a few tentative steps forward. “We haven’t got a lot of time.”

Suddenly, light flared up out of nothing, surprising the three _ néri _ and drawing out pained groans from intoxicated throats. Once their eyes had adjusted, they realized with shock that it was a stone lamp sitting on the long, flat table that had served Russandol for a bed. Behind the table, seated in a chair as if at a desk, was Nolofinwë. He was flanked on either side by guards in full armor - Aryaráto recognized Laurëfindil on his left, and on his right was a slightly built and fine-boned _ elda _with narrow eyes and long, straight, dark hair.

“Aicatillë,” Artanen spat at this second guard. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“It is you who bears the shame,” Aicatillë replied coolly. “Conspiracy never suited you, Artanen; you do not have the brains for it.”

Artanen lunged forward, only to be held back by his compatriots.

“Don’t,” Ailinwë said. “We are in deep enough as it is.”

“How right you are, Ailinwë Núranenion,” Nolofinwë said, straightening up in his chair and looking over the three would-be murderers disdainfully. “Now. Let us discuss what is to be done with you.”

* * *

When Findekáno next opened his eyes, the sun was streaming in through the windows, and the sky outside was a brilliant blue. For a few moments, he watched the clouds pass above the trees, and then with a jolt of nausea he realized what had happened the night before.

“Russandol!” he said aloud, and scrambled to sit up, casting his eyes about frantically for his crutch. _ Oh, please, whoever hears my prayers - don’t let me be too late - _

“He’s safe,” a voice answered him, and Findekáno looked up to see Súlwë in his closet, folding up the blue and silver tunic that he had given up for scraps.

“I - what - ?” he asked. “What?”

“He’s safe, _ haryon-nînya,” _Súlwë said again, turning to face him. “Your father dealt with the problem.”

“What happened?”

“First, he went with Alcarinquar and Amdis and someone named Aicatillë to the bath house,” Súlwë told him, “and they brought _ condo _ Nelyafinwë to this house, and he lies in a bed in the room across the hall right now, guarded by that same Aicatillë. Then, Endanáro retired early, and _ aran _Nolofinwë and both those guards went back to the bath house to catch the conspirators in the act.” 

“Where are they?” Findekáno asked. His fear was turning to anger, to sparking fury. “They had no right to - !”

“They are no longer in this encampment,” Súlwë said. He had finished with the tunic, and stood in the doorway to the closet, looking back at Findekáno. “I got the impression that they had better places to be. Your father told Endanáro that they had gone to live with the Sindar, though I do not know how their king will take to having near-murderers in his halls.”

“Why didn’t he summon me for any of this?” _ I would have liked to see Russandol… _

“Because, _ haryon-nînya, _ when he sent me to fetch you, you were asleep, and he judged it best to let you rest.” The other _ nér _shrugged, nearly smiling. “Unfortunately, his orders outrank your own.” He began to walk across the room, toward the door. “Is there anything more you need before I return to… well, to whatever I was doing before all of this?”

“Be my valet?” Findekáno asked, and then realized that he had asked such a thing, and winced. “I mean - !”

“Yes,” Súlwë said, and his smile spread across his face. 

“What? Really?”

“Of course I will,” his new valet answered. “You need a valet, and I need a set position, and - I think we are both very _ lonely, _ if you’ll permit my boldness. We might be good for one another.”

“We might,” Findekáno answered, and smiled himself. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” Súlwë told him. “May I beg off a few minutes more of freedom to get myself some breakfast?”

“I will do better than that - bring back enough for two,” Findekáno said, “and we can dine as friends.”

“Friends,” Súlwë said, and nodded, and his smile crept up to his eyes. “I like the sound of that.” 

“Good,” Findekáno told him, “because so do I.” As Súlwë left, he found himself truly grinning, and he turned his gaze back to the clouds and the brilliant sky. 

_ I have a valet, _ he thought, _ and Russandol will not be murdered, and perhaps I have made a true friend after all these years. _

_ The only thing I could ask for beyond this is my husband, awake again and by my side at last. _

_ Oh, _ melindo, _ wake up soon. _


	10. You Are Very Lucky To Be Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some interrupted sex that happens under confused pretenses (caused by misunderstanding) in this chapter. I wrote it to be completely consensual, albeit consenting to circumstances that weren't exactly what wound up happening, but I know that for some of my readers it's given off dubcon vibes and so I'm warning upfront.

His shoulder did not hurt. 

He was slowly drawn up out of sleep, coming back to himself and feeling as though he had been adrift on a dark and dreamless ocean, and as he woke he realized several things, all in quick succession. First, that not only was his shoulder free of pain, _ all _ of him was; second, that this assessment was not entirely accurate and that, rather than being free of pain, he was merely suffused with a dull and almost pleasant ache; third, that ‘suffused’ was a ridiculous word; last of all, that he was no longer held aloft by one wrist but was - 

“Bed?” Maitimo said aloud, and flinched violently at the sound. It was rough, and weak, and hard-edged like a serrated knife. More than anything it resembled an Orc’s voice, not his own. A frightful thought pierced through the haze of sleep - _ what if I am doomed to speak thusly for the rest of my life? _ \- and he shivered and blinked back sudden tears. _ I do not know where I am, and so I cannot cry. Will not cry. This is some trick of Moringoþo, some foul illusion that will end badly or some trap set to catch me in its steel jaws. I will not go blindly into yet more suffering. _

As he lay in bed, he began to take stock of himself. The room where he was currently being kept was roughly made but not so crude as to be truly ugly based solely on craftsmanship. Its walls were white, and whatever was beneath the pale paint was smooth but did not reflect light as stone would. In the corners, and overhead, he could see dark wooden beams supporting the structure, while the ceiling appeared to be made of some sort of plant matter. His bed was simple but sturdy, four posts and a headboard made of the same sort of timber that kept the room up, and it was covered by pale, roughly-woven sheets and a wool blanket that had not been dyed. The pillows were definitely stuffed with down, but when he shifted position on the mattress he heard it rustle beneath him and the sharp but unmistakable scent of straw hit his nose.

To his right, Maitimo saw a window some three steps from the bed. It was a crude thing, cut into the wall itself. There was no glass, but there were wooden shutters anchored in the wall on either side, and a small glass vase with a few red-gold leaves in it rested on the sill. Outside, he could see daylight, and puffs of cloud, and blue sky. _ So I am not far from my former home on the cliff-face, then, _ he thought, and this brought yet more tears. He had hoped that this might have been a truly new part of Angamando, perhaps the laborers’ barracks in the mines, but instead it seemed he had been freed from the mountain only to face some new horror.

He shivered again, and looked at the rest of the room. It was smaller than the first cell he had been kept in but larger than the last, with two yards’ distance between the bed and the door in the upper left corner. There was a chair made of woven reed at the foot of the bed, and another rough wool blanket folded neatly upon it. The floor was yet more dark wood. There were no weapons, or chains, or whips upon the walls, and - 

\- and the iron collar was no longer about his neck, and he could look down at his chest and see bandages rolled about his ribs.

His heart thudded in his chest, and he tried to sit up, bracing both hands against the mattress and the roughly woven bedclothes. As he pushed himself upright, his right hand slipped on something; he fell back onto the pillows with a hoarse curse. Frowning, he settled back into a reclining position, leaning heavily on his left side as he drew his right arm up and out of the pale sheet and blanket. _ I am not in any pain, what - ? _

Maitimo froze.

He was staring at his right arm, this much was evident - it moved when he moved it, and he could take two fingers of his left hand and trace up the limb from wrist to shoulder and feel it. But it was wrapped in white cloth, and smelled of strange salve and herbs, and -

\- and there was no hand past his forearm, only empty air.

He was shaking, he realized, as his left hand gripped his bandaged wrist. Shaking hard enough to blur his vision. The tears he had fought against since his awakening spilled out of the corners of his eyes and ran over his cheekbones; he tried to breathe and found all he could do was gasp for air in horrible half-sobs.

“What?” he asked again, aloud this time. “What did I _ do? _”

He could not remember. He could not remember misbehaving, or speaking out of turn, or looking one of his masters in the face without permission, or hesitating to obey, or resisting outright. Of course, Moringoþo needed no excuse to maim or mutilate him, but if he remained within the bounds permitted to thralls he usually had a chance of escaping the worst of his masters’ attention.

Maitimo groaned, and slammed his head back into the pillows, still holding his arm above his chest as he tried desperately to remember what, if anything, he had done to deserve this sort of punishment. He could feel the tremble in his limbs now, could feel it mingling with the pounding of his heart and the frightful panic mounting in his mind. _ I am slain, _ he thought suddenly, and this was a knife of desperate clarity. _ I may breathe, but I am as good as dead. He will end me. He has healed me only to execute me. He - ! _

The door at the top corner of the room opened. Maitimo sat up all at once. His back protested, but he did not dare show any weakness, did not dare reveal the terror mounting behind the calm expression he shoved onto his face with every scrap of willpower he had left.

“Þa - !” he began, expecting the hated face of Moringoþo’s lieutenant, or else a pair of guards come to drag him before the throne. But the word shriveled up and withered in his throat, before he could finish it.

In the doorway, concern written plainly on his face, was Nolofinwë Finwion. 

Maitimo stared at him, eyes roaming over hair and robes and signet brooch, mouth falling open in shock. Nolofinwë stared back, solid and unwavering, as Maitimo gaped at him. _ Of all the dreams I might have had, _ he thought, and shook his head. 

For what felt like an eternity, neither spoke, and his eyes came to rest on his uncle’s hands and the sleeves of his robe. He swallowed hard, blinking several times. Each time, the image was the same. None of the wavering, too-real intensity of Moringoþo’s illusions, or the gleam in Sauron’s eyes that sometimes shone through if he had been careless.

_This… this is _real, he thought. He shuddered, and his arms went limp, with his hand and wrist falling back into the tangle of sheets. _I. I think this might be real._

“You’re awake?” Nolofinwë said. His voice had not changed - it was still the same as his father’s, only tempered with calm rather than drenched in rage and ambition. 

_ This truly might be real. _

He whimpered, and shivered, and forced himself not to cry. The tension melted out of his shoulders, and he slumped back against the mattress.

“Where… where _ am _ I?” he asked. The words were a low and frightened rumble.

Nolofinwë winced at the sound of his voice. “You are in the encampment of my host, nephew,” he said. “On the shores of a lake that the Sindar call Misrim.”

“Misrim?” Maitimo asked, half-incredulous. “I know that name, somehow.” Something was rising in his chest that he could not name, some bright burning thing that was lifting his heart up out of the empty hollows of his stomach. He could feel the long-stagnant wheels of his mind turning, beginning to piece together what exactly was going on in his chest -

\- he coughed once, twice, and then a bark of hoarse laughter fought its way up through his teeth. He looked up at his uncle, this time fixing his eyes on the spot between Nolofinwë’s brows, and gave another awkward laugh.

“Misrim?” he asked, and made a face. “Truly?” _ If this is an illusion, it is a ridiculous one. Back in Miþrim again? After all this time? Before, it was always Formenos, or Tirion. _

Nolofinwë exhaled sharply, almost laughing himself.

“You were not driven mad, at least,” he said. “And you recall enough of your life to find that absurd.”

“I do,” Maitimo said, and rolled over onto his back with a quiet moan. _ Can I trust this? _ he thought, wincing as the pains began to creep back in. _ It is probably _ not _ a dream, if I am in pain, though it has been so long since I dreamed that I could not say if such a thing were possible. _ He looked around the room again - it had not changed, or wavered, or shifted. But the best of Þauron’s illusions were just as convincing. _ But he has never given me _ this _ before. Even when I was ‘rescued’, I was taken back to my father’s. _

_ What am I to do? _

“Are you all right?” Nolofinwë asked, stepping into the room proper. Maitimo flinched violently, jarred out of his thoughts; he instantly rolled onto his side, watching the other _ nér _warily, ready to fight or to spring from the bed in obedience “Are you in any pain?”

_ Does he know where he is? _ Maitimo thought. _ Next thing I know, he’ll be asking me what all these bruises are from. _ His face, however, showed none of his incredulity when he spoke aloud. 

“No,” he answered. “Well, I am a solid mass of aches and dull burning fire in my shoulder, but compared to what I have known? This is bliss and Aman in the spring.” He was not sure how he was so calm, so articulate; he could feel incoherent terror behind every word and decided to count his blessings for now. _ And besides, the odds are that this is yet another illusion, or another one of Þauron’s lovely pretenses. It is safest to go along, but… no. No, this is not real. _

“Good,” Nolofinwë said. He was standing at the foot of the bed, resting one hand upon a post. Maitimo could see there was a restless light in his eyes. “I had intended to see how you were sleeping,” he continued, “but now that you are awake, and possessed of your wits -”

“That is debatable.”

“Possessed at least of clarity of mind,” his uncle amended, “and so there are things we might discuss.”

“I doubt I will be of much, or any, help,” Maitimo murmured. Now that it seemed unlikely that he would be dragged before a crowd of jeering orcs and terrified thralls and hacked to pieces, he had very little strength left, and what remained was taken up by furious plotting to stay ahead of whatever game this was that he was caught in. “I cannot even say how I came to _be_ here, _atarháno.”_ _If you even are my _atarháno,_ which remains to be seen._

“What?” Nolofinwë asked, and his eyes narrowed.

“When I was last possessed of ‘clarity of mind’, as you put it, I was suspended by my right wrist from a cruel shackle in the outer walls of Thangorodrim itself, with nothing to clothe me or shield me save the wind and the rain, and no one to hear me cry out for aid,” he explained, and shivered. If he closed his eyes and opened them again, the glass-sharp cliff face would be behind him and the wide expanse of the world below; that much was certain, and yet he almost did not want to believe it. “I was weeping, and weeping miserably - there had been a great host of some sort that came to the very gates of my prison, and they sounded trumpets and called out a challenge to Moringoþo, but try as I might to call out to them and beg them to slay me and end my misery, they heard nothing. I cried out until I lost my voice, and when it was clear that there would be no answer, I lost _ myself _ in my grief and despair.” He shrugged and continued. _ I will play this game through to the end, I suppose. _ “Though I am certain many days and nights must have passed since that hour, I could not give you an account of my time until now, when I awoke in this room.” It was the most he had spoken in a very long time, and he found that every heartbeat edged his vision in hazy white as he sought to catch his breath.

His uncle, meanwhile, had grown paler with every word he’d spoken, until at last when he had finished Nolofinwë resembled a corpse more than a living, breathing _ nér _. 

“That was my host,” he said, and his hand gripped the bedpost so tightly that the blood was driven from his fingers. “My challenge to Moringotto, and my trumpets that were sounded.”

“Did you see me, then?” Maitimo asked. “Was it you who freed me?” 

“No,” Nolofinwë admitted. “We saw no one, heard no cry for aid.”

“Then how - ?”

“How were you freed?”

“Yes.”

His uncle glanced down at him ruefully. “It is a rather grim story, Maitimo.” 

It was the first time anyone had said his _ amilessë _in years uncounted, and the sound of it brought yet more tears to his eyes. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, lifting his right hand to wipe his eyes before remembering that he had no right hand and using his left instead.

“You were borne out of the north on the back of one of Manwë’s Eagles, unconscious and very near to death and thusly maimed,” Nolofinwë said, gesturing to his right wrist. “It was Findekáno who - !”

“Findekáno?” Maitimo demanded, pushing himself upright with his elbows. Suddenly, he remembered - kneeling on a black glass floor again and again, the voice and weight and sick warmth of Moringoþo, and above all the pale blue thread of _ someone else _ in the confines of his mind - and he felt the blood drain from his face. _ No, no, no, this must be wrong, I am mistaken, I _ have to be mistaken, _ they would not - oh, oh Valar, oh I am a _ fool, _ this is all because they have caught him! _

“Findekáno went to Angamando to save me,” he said flatly. His voice was shaking.

“Yes,” Nolofinwë answered, “he -”

“Alone?” he pressed, and he could not think to be angry at how much emotion he was showing. His eyes were wide, his heart was pounding, and already he was weighing his chances of survival if he tried to fight his way out of the room. _ If this is real - he is - he went - I shall have to find him, I shall have to go to him, I cannot _ leave _ him here alone, I - _

“He went alone, yes.”

“No,” Maitimo moaned, slumping down into himself. “No, that was _ folly _ , that was _ madness _, he should not have done it!”

“You and I are in agreement, it seems,” Nolofinwë told him.

“How can you be so calm?” Maitimo asked, his heart racing and his voice building to a fever pitch. “What sort of father are you, to sit and speak of this as though it is the distant past and long-since mended?” _ Is this proof you are false? It must be, it _ must _ be! The Nolofinwë I remember would never be so easygoing at the thought of his son in torment! _

“You cannot - !” Nolofinwë began, only to be interrupted.

“_ Where is he? _ ” he demanded, fixing his uncle with a stare made of silver fire. “You _ let him go?!” _

“I did no such thing!” Nolofinwë insisted indignantly.

Maitimo leaned forward and seized his uncle’s robes, forcing Nolofinwë to look down at him. “How long has he been missing?” he continued, voice growing higher and more desperate with every word. “How long has that _ bastard _ Mairon had him for? Do you have _ any _ idea what might be happening to him right now?” _ Oh, I called him a bastard, I will pay for that, but I don’t care, I don’t care - ! _

“Maitimo - !” Nolofinwë began, but before he could continue a third voice cut through the cloud of terror.

“Russandol!”

Maitimo froze, his whole body shaking, and he flinched as if hit by the force of his name. _What?_ _No, no, this cannot - _

Slowly, carefully, terrified of what he might find, he turned his head to look back at the open door. _ No, _ he thought again, _ no, no - ! _

Findekáno stood just outside in the hall. His hair was unbraided, bound behind his head in a low knot, and he wore a tunic of deep blue over brown breeches. There was a crutch propped under his right arm, and his left ankle was wrapped in white bandages, and his face was unnaturally pale and his eyes were growing wider by the second. 

_ Oh, thank Eru, thank Tulkas, thank Irmo and Vairë and Varda and even Námo, _ Maitimo thought, and suddenly he realized that he had seized his uncle’s robes and shouted at him and the fear for Findekáno that still coiled about his heart turned to fear for himself.

_ This is an illusion, a game, a farce, and I - _ ercamando, _ I have transgressed - _

“I am sorry!” he said sharply, desperately, and released Nolofinwë, and shoved himself backward from where he sat until he had fallen off of the bed. Behind him, he could dimly hear Findekáno cry out, but he was already kneeling again, his head bowed and his arms raised, waiting to catch the brunt of whatever blow was coming. “I am sorry I spoke out of turn, I am sorry I spoke so forcefully, I am sorry I seized your robes, I - !”

A pair of arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him back against familiar clothes and unfamiliar scents, and he retched and coughed and swallowed bile.

“Russo,” Findekáno said again, only now it was by his ear, and he could feel his lover’s - his _ husband’s _ \- heart thudding against his back. He looked up at where Nolofinwë stood, and saw that his uncle was staring at him with an expression that could only be described as utterly horrified. 

“Please,” he managed to say, and he was weeping again, “I will not act in such an unbecoming manner a second time.”

“You thought I would strike you,” Nolofinwë said. It was not a question, and the horror lingered in his face. 

Maitimo swallowed, instantly forcing the mask of calm back onto his face. “Aren’t you going to?”

Findekáno’s arms went tight about him, and Nolofinwë started back as if in shock. 

“No,” his uncle said. “I would not strike one of my own people for treating me thusly, if they feared for the life of their friend. Why would I raise my hand against my own kin?”

Maitimo blinked, and tears dripped down off of his cheekbones onto Findekáno’s sleeves, and he found himself staring down at his left hand as it opened and closed again and again.

“That is how it is in Angamando,” he said, and he could feel his teeth chattering. _ How it is _ here, _ but if I say that it is false it will fall apart around me. _

There was a rustle of cloth, and the _ thud _ of boots on wood, and then his uncle was kneeling beside him. 

“That is not how it is here,” Nolofinwë said. “I swear it.” 

Maitimo took a deep breath to anchor himself, and found he could only sigh and swoon. His strength deserted him entirely, but when he fell forward Findekáno was there to catch him. He let himself be guided back again until his head was leaning back over a broad shoulder, and he watched as the ceiling shifted and faded to white while he wept.

“Come,” he heard Nolofinwë say, and his uncle’s voice was far-off and under rushing water. “Let us get him into bed.” 

“Right,” Findekáno answered - Findekáno was _ here, _ was _ holding him _ , this was a dream this was a dream _ this must be a dream _ \- and the hands that were so gently stroking his hair and his chest shifted to grip him under the arms, and then he was borne up off the floor, and, and...

* * *

Maitimo opened his eyes. He was lying on his side, in the bed once more, and Findekáno was beside him, staring into his face. The sheet and blanket were drawn up over both of them. He realized suddenly that both his husband and his uncle were clothed, while he wore only bandages; he thought that he ought to be ashamed of this but found he did not have the energy. 

“You fell asleep, _ enda-nînya, _” Findekáno said gently, and he reached out with one hand and brushed a strand of hair from Maitimo’s face.

“And you were watching me?” he asked weakly, trying to smile but finding he could not force his lips to curve upward. 

“I was, once my father left us alone,” Findekáno said, and his eyes were soft and warm. “Is that so wrong?”

“Nolofinwë is gone?” Maitimo asked, and pushed himself up on his elbow. The room was empty save for the two of them, and the door was shut.

“He helped me get you into bed again, and ordered me to sleep myself, and went back to his duties. But I am not tired, and so, I watched you.”

_ Oh, _ Maitimo thought, and his stomach twisted on itself, and he fought to keep from retching from the realization. _ Oh, it is false, and I am a fool. _ His eyes filled with tears again, and his rage at being deceived once more was mingling with sick fear at what he knew was coming next.

“Russandol?” Findekáno asked, and his resolve broke and he was on the edge of weeping again, trembling so violently that he could feel himself shaking against the mattress. _ I do not want this, _ he thought, and it was plaintive, and it was desperate, and Þauron would use that against him, and he did not care.

“Russo,” the thing in Findekáno’s shape said, and it sounded so very like him, and Maitimo was choking on his own nausea. _ Just do it, _ he thought bitterly. _ The faster you act the faster it will be over. _

The false Findekáno moved closer to him, wrapping arms about him, cradling him against a hollow chest that only served as a mask.

“You are safe,” it said, and he shook his head. It was not worth pretending he was fooled anymore. He could feel the shape moving, curling around him, holding him close, kissing him; every touch and caress left him colder and more hopeless. 

_ I could pretend, _ he thought to himself, letting Þauron wrap arms and legs that belonged to someone else about his bandaged body. _ I could let him have that victory. I am exhausted, and this is his best illusion yet. _

_ No, _ he immediately answered himself, though he was unable to be angry anymore. _ No, you will only suffer more. You can endure. But you mustn’t pretend. _

_ All right, _ he decided, and let his eyes slip shut and forced himself to imagine that it was not his hair being stroked, his neck being kissed. _ All right. I will not pretend. _

He sighed, and sliced up his knife-sharp agony, and buried it deep until he forgot it existed.

* * *

“Russandol,” a low voice said in his ear. “Russandol, you must wake.”

He opened his eyes, and sucked in air, and pushed himself up onto his right elbow, all in the same heartbeat. _ It is not safe to sleep, you idiot, _ he castigated himself, but even this was a dull flat statement rather than true annoyance. _ You know what happens if you sleep in _ his _ arms. _And yet, as he pushed himself away from Þauron’s arms, he found that his captor let him go easily, and looked at him with an expression that mimicked concern and fear so well that it was almost convincing.

Almost.

_ What is it? _ he thought, unwilling to give Þauron the satisfaction of hearing his voice. But the Maia ignored him - _ he obviously heard me, there is not a single thought I have that is my own _ \- and sat up himself, looking over his shoulder. 

“The healers brought some broth for you,” he said, turning at the waist to retrieve something sitting behind him. When he was facing Maitimo again, he was holding a small earthenware bowl and a wooden spoon, and there was steam wafting up from whatever was contained within the clay vessel. “Since you’re awake enough to eat.”

_ Eat? _ Maitimo thought, and this nearly cracked through the flat calm that held his thought in an iron grip. _ I - I don’t - _

_ \- clearly this is some kind of trick, or trap, or else I am being healed so that I may be tormented again. _

He sighed, and swallowed, and he had to admit that whatever was in the bowl smelled better than anything he could remember. _ I will be fed it whether or not I cooperate. I might as well avoid having it poured down my nose. _

“Can you sit up?” Þauron asked, and he sounded so like Findekáno that if Maitimo had not known the truth, he would have been convinced in an instant. He did not answer, or blink, or exhale; even thinking of thinking _ I will not help you torment me _ would garner him pain, and so it was easiest to lie still and do nothing at all. 

The Maia laughed, soft and low and warm, and it was so familiar that made the hair on his arms stand on end. “You cannot eat lying down,” Þauron said, “and even if you _ could _ that would doubtless end with broth everywhere. Here, let me help you.” There was a sound of crackling straw and shifting bedclothes, and then the low _ thud _ of a bowl being placed on a side table, and then there were those damned arms wrapping gently about him and pulling him up so that he was no longer lying half on his side and half on his back. He was arranged in a position that was more or less upright, with his back propped against several pillows and a sheet and blanket covering him from the waist down, and his arms rested at his sides. All of this was done by Þauron; he did not move, and was limp as a boned fish. His eyes stared down, unfocused, at his right wrist. 

_ I was right, _ he thought, and it was nearly bitter. _ I _ am _ still being punished for whatever I did that cost me my hand. _ Somehow, Þauron did not answer him, instead retrieving the bowl and filling the wooden spoon with a clear liquid. 

“Can you eat?” the Maia asked him, and that was funny enough that he almost twisted his bandaged face into a half-smile. He _ wanted _to reply, to give some sardonic retort, but instead his gaze dropped to his missing right hand and to its bruised and bandaged twin. 

“Oh,” Þauron said. “Of course. I - I will help you, I am sorry for the indignity, only…” His voice trailed off in a perfect mockery of concern and embarrassed altruism, and again, Maitimo thought that his illusion was very near to perfect. He shifted position so that he sat on his knees beside the taller _ elda, _and offered up the spoon. 

“Open your mouth?” he asked. “That and swallowing are all you must do.” 

Maitimo turned his head, and looked down at the broth, and let its scent fill his mind. He could not help it. He was hungry, and the sight of something warm being offered to him made his _ hröa _remember the foul things he had been fed to keep him from wasting away entirely. His stomach growled, and he sent several curses in its traitorous direction. Þauron’s expression softened, and the spoon was lifted higher. 

“Please,” he said softly, and his face was a flawless imitation of Findekáno when he wanted something very badly but was too polite to show it. 

He was never able to resist that face, and it made his heart twist in his chest and brought tears to his eyes for a few seconds. What little resistance he had left him all at once, deflating any hope he might have been burying that he could avoid being harmed by this series of shades and phantoms.

Defeated, he opened his mouth, and Þauron slipped the spoon into it. His lips closed around the wood, and he swallowed as the broth spilled over into his mouth, and the tears that had threatened to overtake him moments earlier ran down his face to match. 

This was the best thing he had ever tasted, and the shock of it overwhelmed him utterly. He turned his eyes back to Þauron, who was watching him and weeping along with him, and he swallowed the damnable broth and knew the end was coming fast. 

_ You have won, _ he thought. _ Once more, as you always do. You found yet another way to hurt me. End this, and return me to my shackle and my emptiness, and - _

The spoon left his mouth, and in its place came a gentle kiss to the edge of his lips, and another to his bandaged cheekbone, and a third to his temple. 

“You’re doing well,” Þauron told him, and the praise made his gut clench and twist on himself, and he nearly retched and vomited up the mouthful he had just swallowed. _ No, _ he thought, _ no, please. _

But pleading was useless. 

Another spoonful, another swallow, another kiss and caress, another encouragement that left him sick and shaking. 

When there was no more broth, Þauron saw fit to reward him with yet one more kiss, this time fully on his lips.

“I feared I had lost you,” he said, eyes filling with false tears; Maitimo found he could not be entirely unmoved. “I thought - I thought you would perish, either there on the cliff or here from your wounds, or…” His voice trailed off, expertly imitating anguish and fear and relief, and he sighed and wiped his eyes.

“I thought you would die, and leave me here,” he said. Maitimo thought his heart might burst. _ He has gotten far too good at this, _ he realized with mounting dread. _ I - I will be utterly heartbroken before the end. _

_ Damn him. And damn _ me, _ too. I am lost. _

He said nothing, looking up hollow-eyed at Þauron, who let out a faint cry and threw his arms about Maitimo’s shoulders.

“I am - I am so _ glad - _!”

He burst into tears, sobbing into Maitimo’s shoulder, soaking the bandages through.

* * *

“You have been in Misrim for nearly two months,” Þauron told him, once his fit of feigned tears had passed and they were lying side by side. The great light in the sky - the Sun, he had been told - was sinking down behind the trees, bathing the whole room in gold and amber and red. 

“Oh,” he said, dull and listless. _ I suppose I cannot get away with being completely silent. _

“You slept for long enough that my wrist healed,” he continued, lifting his right hand and waving it with a faint smile. “It was broken on the mountain, when I freed you.”

_ I noticed your cast, _ Maitimo answered, stopping the thoughts just before they could rise to the surface and be felt and plucked out of his head. _ You are getting better at pretending. I am shocked you have not yet touched my hair. But then again, you have never played this game when I have needed to heal from some torment or punishment. _

_ I wonder how long it will last. _

“Russo?” Þauron asked him, and he flinched. _ What? You never - ! _

His eyes flicked up, and his impassive mask nearly cracked and broke; he found Þauron’s face and let his gaze burn into it. _ I am risking much, I am very nearly telling him I know our game is false, but - but he never - ! _

All that Maitimo found was the same face, the same deep brown eyes, the same nose and jaw and lips that even now he longed to kiss, despite everything. 

“What is it?” Þauron asked him. 

He sighed, and dropped his eyes back down, and looked away.

“Are you tired?” 

He nodded. He wasn’t sure if he was in fact tired, but he knew he could sleep, given the chance, or given the order. _ And who knows what he will do to me tomorrow? _

“Then let’s sleep,” Þauron told him. “Sit up?” 

Maitimo obeyed long enough for the pillows to be rearranged, and for Þauron to lay him down against the mattress and cover them both up with blankets. He took a deep breath, feeling the bandages tighten about his ribs, and sighed, letting it all out at once. _ At least I am not being tortured, _ he told himself, only to feel something rather like pain swell up in his chest. 

He did not let himself weep, even when Þauron seemed to have fallen asleep and the silver light of what he was told was called the Moon rose up like Telperion regrown. Instead, he took the arm that was so like his husband’s and draped it over his frail shoulders. 

_ He may not be Findekáno, but perhaps I can pretend, for a little while. _

_ This will not be so bad. _

* * *

Two more weeks passed, and the days were much the same. Maitimo was fed, and kissed, and caressed, and coddled, and his bandages were changed twice a day; he was never asked to draw Þauron a bath, or to sit quietly at the Maia’s feet while he worked, or to sleep on the wooden floor while his captor lounged on the bed like the high lord he was. He was left to heal, and heal he did, though that only brought mounting dread.

_ As soon as I am not bleeding through the bandages, he will probably ask me to spread my legs for him, _ Maitimo thought, and then scrubbed out every trace of the sick revulsion he felt. _ And then it will be over, all of this, and it will be back to the same games as always. _Somewhere deep within him was the urge to vomit. He cut it out and buried it until he could feel nothing.

“Russo!” 

Þauron again, coming through the door, smiling as though he could light the world with it. He was holding a book, and stumbling over his crutch in a perfect impression of eager clumsiness. Maitimo flinched - _ I am still not used to you calling me that - _but found it well hidden beneath the blankets and beneath a few easy blinks of his eyes. 

“Hello,” he said, as Þauron shut the door behind him.

“I thought I’d read to you,” his captor said, kicking off his boot and climbing into bed. “If you wanted.”

Maitimo was going to nod, to take this more or less effortlessly, to subject himself to Eru knew how many more months and years of this farce. 

He _ was _ going to be good, until he opened his mouth.

“When are you going to bed me?”

Þauron started back, staring at him.

“What?”

_ Oh, _ ercamando, muk, _ damn it, I am going to _ pay _ for this, but honestly? I would rather cut to the core than sit here and wait for him to make his move. _

“When are you going to bed me?” he asked again. “I know you will want to.”

“I - !” Þauron said, paling and then flushing red. “You - here? _ Now?!” _

“Where else would it happen?” _ I really have ceased to care if I live or die, haven’t I? But death - death would be better than _ this, _ I think. If Þauron is going to kill me, I would rather it be on my terms, and this? The care, the gentleness, how he _ looks _ at me? _

_ This is breaking my heart. _

Þauron looked at him, warily, uncertain in every movement. 

_ You are so - you are perfectly like him, _ Maitimo thought, _ this cannot go on, you are using my _ name, _ you monster, you - ! _

“I want this,” he said, and he meant it. “I want this.” _ I want it to be _ over, _ but I know what I am asking for. I could even say no, and go on with this game, and nothing would happen to punish me. No. I want this.  
_

His words seemed to hang in the air, between them, burning through the silence. And then Þauron took a deep breath, expression pained, and nodded.

“If… if you want this,” he said, eyes wide and uncertain. “If you want this.”

Maitimo lay himself down on the mattress, half-reclining against the pillow, and let himself drift off as darkness descended over his thoughts and he knew no more.

* * *

Findekáno did not know if what he did was wrong, or right. He was pressing gentle kiss after gentle kiss to the pale flesh beneath him, nuzzling and licking, and Russandol was utterly silent and still.

_ He - he has barely _ looked _ at me, _ he thought, tears filling his eyes. _ Is - is this all I am meant to do? Does he love me? Did he - was I wrong? Did he burn the ships? _

_ Does he hate me? _

He realized he was weeping as he moved, hot tears falling down onto his husband; he would have sobbed at any other moment. _ Please, _ he begged, barely knowing who he was speaking to. _ Please, he - I love him, this cannot be how we end... _

Blue and copper, flaring in his mind for half a heartbeat, sending echoes down through his bond.

_ What? _Findekáno thought, shivering, gasping, nearly choking. Again - gold and blue, copper and silver, twining and rising up in the darkness at the back of his mind where the ruins of his marriage-bond lay. Another handful of heartbeats, with fits and starts of bright color half-blinding him - 

\- and then suddenly, _ suddenly, _ the embers sparked, flakes of fire devouring one another and letting themselves be devoured, until they were igniting every ash that was left of their bond. There was an inferno blazing in the back of Findekáno’s mind, tearing through the back of his skull, burning, _ burning - _

Russandol jerked beneath him, gasping, moaning. Something hard slammed into his sternum, forcing him up, and at the same time there was a hard blow to the side of his head. Findekáno scrambled back onto hands and knees, gaping, mouth hanging open like a dying fish.

_ “Mana?” _he cried, but suddenly he found himself staring at Russandol. 

Russandol, who was sitting up in bed and staring at him, silver eyes blazing and filling with tears.

“You…” he said, choking on the word. “You’re _ real?!” _

Findekáno felt his heart drop out onto the floor beneath the bed.

“I… _ what?” _

But Russandol was weeping openly now, clinging to the bedclothes, and shaking so badly that he could barely sit upright.

“You - !” he gasped, when he was not coughing up his own tears. “This is - you are not - !” Another sob, another gasp, and then he finally managed a full sentence.

“Þauron could - he could imitate, he could recreate anything,” he said, and the tears had clearly blinded him. “Faces, forms, places, it - anything, except - !”

“Except what?” Findekáno asked. “And who is Þauron?”

“Our bond,” Russandol said. “He - our bond was - it was never _ there, _ I tore it out - you - this is - _ I _am - !” 

Findekáno inched closer to him as he wept. Each sob shook the whole of his body.

“Russo,” he said, and that tore a frightened wail from panicked lips, “what is it?”

“I…” the other _ nér _ moaned, “I am _ out? _ I - _ truly?!” _

Findekáno reached out and touched Russandol’s shoulder, feeling it shiver.

“Yes,” he said, and when his husband looked at him, he thought he would weep from anger and from relief. _ “Yes.” _

Russandol cried out again, throwing both arms around him, almost knocking him over. 

“Thank you,” he said, voice muffled by pale blue linen. “Thank you.”

Findekáno held him close, and let him weep, and felt their newly-restored bond consume them both.


	11. It Is Hardly Possible To Separate You

Findekáno could barely think, or feel, or move; the fire and burning light of their bond had completely overwhelmed him. He was hot and cold and hot again all at once, fingers and toes burning, and he felt as if the back of his head had been cracked open to bleed into Russandol’s. Every breath was his husband’s exhalation, and every heartbeat was only a rebound of another heart in another ribcage. He closed his eyes, and opened them to sparks of fire, to echoes of warmth and the last edges of their mingling voices. He could feel his own hands, and both of Russandol’s, as if their furtive coupling in the darkness was beginning anew, or as the past and the present had interwoven until they were indistinguishable. And beneath it all, heavy as cold lead, coiled about half of them like a serpent, was the inescapable weight of the Oath. 

There was a breath - he could not say _ whose _ \- and then Russandol gasped, and shivered, and tried to crawl beneath him and use his arm as a cloak despite the fact that they were lying flat on a bed and were twined about one another already. The world cleared and solidified into focus, and Findekáno realized he was staring at a ceiling, and then he sat up on his elbows as his husband clung to him with a faint whimper.

“Don’t go,” he said, voice rough and ragged; Findekáno looked down at him, stricken.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and the words shook as he spoke. “I want to get us both back up onto the pillows. You’re going to tear your stitches.”

“Don’t care,” Russandol muttered. “You’re here. You’re _ real.” _

For the second time, Findekáno found himself speechless, and chilled to the bone. But this time, Russandol clearly felt it - he flinched, and shrank down until he was wrapped about his husband’s lower half, with his own legs curled up beneath him. He looked up at Findekáno with wide, frightened eyes, only made the more desperate by the bandages that still covered much of his face. 

“... come here, Russo,” Findekáno answered, sitting up all the way. He reached down and put his arms underneath his husband’s, guiding the other _ nér _ carefully up until he was doing his very best to hide in the lap of someone that he towered over, even sitting down. 

“You are a foot and a half taller than me,” Findekáno said, almost laughing when he was knocked about by elbows and knees that did not belong to him. 

“And?” Russandol asked.

“Nothing, it only seems as though I have married a cat.” 

“Hah,” his husband answered, burying his face in Findekáno’s tunic as both arms went about his chest. 

“It is the truth, I think,” he said bemusedly. “Come on, let’s get further up. You’re shivering.”

“Mn,” Russandol protested weakly, but he let himself be moved nonetheless. 

It was an awkward, fumbling series of movements that drew them up to the head of the bed in fits and starts, but finally, Findekáno was sitting upright, and his husband was reclining beside him, tucked beneath his right arm and resting against his chest. Warmth surged up between them, gentle and sustaining; he bent down and kissed the top of Russandol’s head. This made the other _ nér _ shiver and begin to weep again, and soon his tunic was soaked through on his right side. 

Driven on by sparks of bright anguish, and with his heart surging up inside his own chest, Findekáno slid down the pillows until he could wrap up his husband in a tight embrace. 

_ I’m here, _ he thought, and was met with a surge of frightened relief that swept away the last of his resistance; he clung to Russandol and wept, and wept some more, the sensations mounting between them until every gasp and cry and acrid tear belonged to both and neither of the _ eldar _ tangled in the bedclothes. 

_ You’re here, _ his husband answered in the same fashion, as if he scarcely believed it. _ You’re here, you found me, you _ freed _ me, you - ! _

A hand feebly seized his tunic, joined by awkward bumps and brushes from the wrist of its twin, and then there were lips on his, hot and frantic, kissing him again and again. He returned each one eagerly, the bond blazing back to its full life the longer they touched, and then his own hands were on Russandol’s shoulders, his chest, his back - 

“Wait,” he said aloud, and there was enough heat in his voice to send shivers down the spines they shared, and his breeches grew achingly tight in an instant. “Wait.”

“What?” Russandol asked. “I…”

“We - we’re almost…” 

“Oh,” his husband replied, and tried to laugh; it came out withered and half-dead. He sighed and rested his forehead against Findekáno’s shoulder. 

_ Probably the bond, _ he said silently. In the newly-restored silence it was easy to hear how raspy and labored his breathing had become, as if every exhalation was tearing away his strength. _ I… I remember my mother talking about it, before… _

“As do I,” Findekáno answered, easily embracing Russandol again, cradling frail limbs and torso against what warmth could be offered by another _ hröa. _ The now-familiar heat of their shared awareness settled over them both like another quilt, and he gave of himself freely, letting it rise until it had stilled the trembling in the other _ nér’s _ shoulders. “It will take some time until we’ve sorted out which hands belong to each of us, or so I am told.” He could dimly recall a handful of conversations with his parents, and the few teasing barbs he had exchanged with a then-newlywed Turukáno, regarding the nature of marriage-bonds. “This will be harder than I had thought.”

_ What do you mean? _ Russandol asked him, and whether or not it was possible for _ ósanwë _to be sleepy his husband certainly sounded it. 

“Well,” Findekáno said, “we are still technically newlyweds, aren’t we?”

_ Mm, _his husband answered, shifting against him and sliding down his side; they could both feel the change in their bond, as if it were a bowstring that had just been tested. 

_ No, _ Findekáno ordered himself sternly, trying and failing to will himself out of several more minutes of painfully tight breeches. He remembered at the last second that Russandol could _ hear _ him, and indeed, this was met with a far more genuine laugh than their earlier fumbling. 

“You… really?” the other _ nér _said aloud, and though his face was still pressed against Findekáno’s chest, he was smiling. 

“It isn’t as if I can _ help _ it.”

“Hm,” Russandol replied, still smiling. _ Is the world always heaving and too bright like this, _ he continued silently, _ or is _ that _ the bond too? _

“I think it must be the bond,” Findekáno answered, glancing around at the room that was now bursting with color. “I’ve been awake here for weeks and it has never looked like this. And Turukáno - well, I used to tease him, when he got back from his time away with Elenwë…” His voice trailed off; he had not thought about his lost sister since the day he had fled into the mountains.

_ Tease him about what? _Russandol asked; he flinched.

“Oh. He had lost all grace and balance. He was tripping over his own feet half the time.”

_ Curufinwë was the same, _ his husband informed him. _ Though in _ his _ case it was far more amusing, since his dexterity in the forge suffered intensely for some months. _

“And I am sure you all mocked him mercilessly for it.”

_ We did, until our mother informed us that someday, should we forge bonds of our own, we would be in the same situation with no room to talk. _ He sighed, tightening his feeble grip on Findekáno. _ I never could have guessed she was right about something. _

“Hah,” Findekáno answered, reaching down with one hand to stroke his husband’s hair and feeling the tension in a newly-discovered other half begin to unspool. _ He is so frail, _ he thought, and there were hot tears in his eyes. _ Oh, I wish I could kill Moringotto. _

_ I have first blood, _Russandol informed him, and he flinched again, and this time they both laughed. 

“We need to decide which parts go in which _ hröa,” _ he said, sounding far more decisive than he felt. “Else I doubt we shall _ walk _again, let alone ride or hunt or fish.”

“That is easy,” his husband said, still bemusedly tired. _ “I _ only have the one hand, and _ you _ have two.”

Findekáno swallowed hard, and the tears began to stream down his face as guilt seemed to pierce through his heart. His embrace tightened, and it was his turn to shiver.

“Finno?” Russandol asked, looking up at him. “What is it?”

“I - !” he said, and he had to stop for fear he would cry out in grief and shame. He shoved five or six sobs in succession back down into his gut, and Russandol could feel each one and he did not care, and with every passing second he felt his limbs grow heavier and more rigid until all he could do was tremble.

_ I am sorry, _ he thought miserably, tears half-blinding him. _ I am so sorry, I had to, I had no _choice - !

Understanding flooded Russandol’s features, clear despite the bandages still masking most of his face. 

_ You - _ you _ did this? _he asked, shifting his right arm.

_ Yes, _ Findekáno answered, shutting his eyes, not daring to look at his husband. _ Yes, I couldn’t - there was no other way, I - _!

“Finno,” Russandol said aloud, startling him out of yet another litany of self-castigation. “Look at me.” 

He obeyed, though the motion was slow and torturous. His eyes were burning with weeks’ worth of self-loathing. 

“You saved me,” Russandol told him, and for once his own expression was solid and grounding and the fear was momentarily banished. “You _ saved _ me. You took me away from - from _ that, _how…” He took a breath of his own, and anchored his chin against the curve of Findekáno’s ribs, and pressed on. “I do not hate you. Not for this.” 

_ Oh, _ Findekáno thought. _ Oh. _

The sobs he had fought so hard to suppress once again won their battle, and he lay back against the mattress and wept, and Russandol was kind enough to be silent when the wave of relief swept up around him and carried him after.

“I…” he managed to gasp at last, still clinging to his husband. “I thought - I thought you would _ loathe _me, I thought you would never forgive me…”

_ Well, that is nonsense, _ Russandol told him matter-of-factly. _ Without you I would still be dangling from that damned cliff. _

“But - but your _ hand, _ I - _ how?!” _

_ I can live with one hand, you know. _ He sighed, and lay his head down against Findekáno’s chest. _ I will have to remind you of this more than once, I can feel it. And not just because I am tired. _

“Is there a reason you’re only speaking mind-to-mind?” Findekáno asked, purposefully changing the subject. “I - your voice, I’ve heard you speak, only…”

_ I am exceedingly weary, and you understand me better like this. _

“Do you want to sleep?”

This time, he was answered with a nod; it brought the ghost of a smile to his lips. 

“All right, _ melindo-nînya,” _he said. “I will not leave your side.”

_ Good, _ Russandol told him, and he was almost instantly asleep; the shift from awareness to dream was so sharp and sudden that Findekáno could not help but be drawn down after him into what felt like a great yawning pit lined with shadowy teeth.

* * *

Despite the return of his eldest, Nolofinwë had not been able to find the time to reinstate a formal family meal. As a result, supper was a messy, drawn-out affair, and he was forced to carve out a good three hours of his evening just to ensure that he saw every one of his family at least once a day. But it was worth it, even if it led to longer nights and longer council meetings; he had little desire to go on as he had, in solitude and in grief, and he had been negligent in managing the more tempestuous members of his house. This evening, his work had taken over one full half of the long dining table, and he managed to fill his stomach with two helpings of rabbit stew in between signing inventories and reading over proposals for what he hoped would soon be the beginnings of a proper town. Around him, the household orbited, with servants and guards going about their duties as the Sun began to descend out of the sky. 

By the time Írimë and Írissë at last turned up for dinner, grimy from a day’s hunt and wearing matching smiles, the candles were lit and he had managed to get to the bottom of that evening’s pile of paperwork. It was a series of complicated blueprints for introducing plumbing to the great house, and while he appreciated the attention to detail of the author, he had every intention of vetoing the proposal, and he said as much to his sister and his daughter.

“But why?” Írissë asked him, sounding very nearly plaintive. “I have missed being able to take a proper bath.”

“We have a proper bathhouse again, now that Maitimo is no longer occupying it,” her father said. “And as to why - do you really expect me to approve such a luxury for our family when our _ people _ are living in tents?”

“So get them out of tents!”

“As if it were that simple,” Nolofinwë sighed. “Technically, we are living on Sindarin land, and though we have a vague permission to dwell here, and to take steps to ensure we do not immediately perish, I am reluctant to engage in any large-scale building projects without more explicit consent from their King.”

“Our _ hánoyoni _ across the lake are not so considerate,” Írimë said, and took a bite of her stew. “Artaresto says he learned from the Sindar that _ they _ have a mine.”

“They _ what?” _ Írissë cried. “But - but we are - _ Atya!” _She glared at him, as if expecting him to right such an injustice instantly. He shrugged. 

“They do not answer to me as their King,” he said calmly, though beneath his relaxed veneer he was quite vexed. “I cannot command them to cease excavating stone, or felling trees, or beginning new industries. And even if I _ could, _ I doubt I would be _ successful.” _

“It isn’t fair, though!” Írissë said, bristling with indignation. “We are trying to be polite, and they are acting as if they own the world!”

“And that is different from before _ how, _exactly?” Írimë asked before Nolofinwë could answer. “They are Fëanárion to the bone. There is very little we have ever been able to do to stop them.”

“Still,” Írissë said, shifting in her seat.

“Still,” Nolofinwë agreed. “Though, perhaps - since they _ do _have a mine, we might begin to trade for stone with which to build in.”

“It would enable us to have more weatherproof housing without clearing whole groves of these wonderful trees,” his sister said. “And it would force them to talk to us in some capacity.”

“They will already have to do that, though,” Írissë said. “Since Maitimo has awoken.”

The room grew tense, and uneasy. The three _ eldar _ all glanced at one another, as if all considering the same unspoken thing, but no one said a word. Nolofinwë found himself wondering both if the _ níssi _ before him had any clue to Findekáno’s enormous secret and if he had in fact chanced upon the truth of it - there was no way to be truly _ certain, _not unless the parties involved were spectacularly indiscreet. 

_ Of course, it is my eldest son I am considering… _

“How _ is _Maitimo?” Írimë asked, breaking the silence at last. “I have been too busy with the excavations for the forge to stop and visit him, and when I last spoke to Endanáro I was told he was in no state to speak to anyone not actively engaged in his care.”

“I was turned away by Aicatillë,” Írissë said, nodding. “Please, tell me - is he going to - ?”

“I can only tell you that when I saw him, which I think must have been near to when he first awoke, he was quite shattered,” Nolofinwë said. “I have not seen him since. Endanáro and Findekáno have been quite protective of him. Findekáno especially.”

“They are very close,” Írissë said, and it was awkward and rushed, as if she was unexpectedly coming to her brother’s defense. 

“They are,” Írimë agreed with another bite of stew. “I am unsurprised to hear that Finno is more or less inseparable from him. It is what he wanted since he returned.” 

“Hm,” Nolofinwë said, hiding a smile in a quirk of his lips. “I am glad he is happier.”

“I’m sure he is,” Írissë said, “but what are we going to do about him?”

“What do you mean?” Írimë asked.

“We have to let his brothers know, don’t we?” 

“Not yet,” Nolofinwë said, and both _ níssi _looked at him curiously. 

“Why not?” Írissë said.

“Because,” he answered, “what happens if they don’t believe us?”

“I’m not sure I understand,” she replied. “Why wouldn’t they believe us?”

“Say that they do, for a moment - that they believe we have their brother, and take our word at face value. But they may not think he is kept here out of kindness. What is to stop one of them from riding over here in the night and cutting a bloody swath through our people until he finds Maitimo and carries him off?”

“Atar!”

“What is to stop them from sending an army?” he pressed on, ignoring her. “Or, worse, they do _ not _ believe us, and think we have lied, and they decide to make war upon us for having hurt their feelings.”

“But they wouldn’t - !”

“Wouldn’t they?” Nolofinwë asked, cutting off his daughter. “They already nearly slaughtered us all by stranding us on the Ice.”

Írissë couldn’t argue with him, and he could see the frustration bleeding out of her face as it turned from blotchy and red to its true shade of brown. 

“You are remarkably blunt,” Írimë said, taking a sip of water from her cup.

“I have no choice,” Nolofinwë replied. “When he can write to them in his own hand, and tell them he is alive - or better yet, when he can return to them wholly - I will permit talk of his presence here to leave the camp.” He sighed again, and this time it was heavy and subdued. “I wish it could be different.”

“So do we all,” Írissë said, glancing out the window behind him as if it were facing the right direction, as if she could see all the way across the lake to the far-off camp of her cousins. “But - but I cannot believe that - _ really? _ You think they would slaughter us for… for _ this?” _

“I see no reason why not.”

“Have you spoken to them at all?” she asked. “I… I only…” Her voice trailed off, and she sighed herself and shook her head. “I want to think well of them. Fëanáro was mad, but - it does not mean that _ they _ are.” 

“It does not,” Nolofinwë agreed. “But if our places were reversed - if it were you, across the lake, in their care, or your brothers - I would be very concerned that they meant to hold you hostage. Even if you were saved in good faith.”

“I suppose,” Írissë said. 

“Your father knows best here, I’m afraid,” Írimë told her. “I think so, anyway.”

“Thank you,” Nolofinwë said, smiling faintly. “Now, if you’ll pardon me - I ought to read the rest of this proposal before I deny it.”

Írimë chuckled and dedicated herself to her stew in earnest.

* * *

Findekáno awoke all at once, gasping and shuddering in the half-darkness of Russandol’s room. The back of his throat burned, raspy and rough, and he was certain he had been screaming, and that it was a terrible sound. But the door had not been flung open, and there was not a ring of the household’s guards around the edges of the bed with their swords drawn. Instead, the world was soft and silent, and he could see the Moon slowly beginning to set above the treetops when he looked out the window. The sky was a pale grey, near to dawn but not quite there.

_ I must have dreamed the screaming, then, _ he thought, reaching up one hand to massage his still-aching throat. _ But I don’t remember what I dreamed. _Casting his thoughts back over his sleep gave him nothing but burning pain, and a darkness hot enough to wring every last drop of sweat from his skin, and white-hot agony in his lungs and in his mouth that seemed to enflame him from the inside out. 

_ It… it doesn’t feel like I dreamed it, _ he realized, frowning. _ It - it’s almost as if it belonged to - _

_ \- _ ai, ércalamando, _ Russandol. _

He turned onto his side, finding his husband easily. The other _ nér _ was still, curled up on himself like an animal or an infant, breathing so softly it would have been easy to assume he was dead if Findekáno hadn’t felt his every heartbeat as an echo in their bond. And indeed, as his attention shifted and fixed into place, that same bond moved with him, rising up and filling him with a quiet dread. _ Something is wrong, _ he thought, though he could not say how he was so certain. _ Something is very wrong. _The pain in his throat grew along with everything else, and each breath became difficult and raw. 

“Russandol,” he murmured, forcing out the word and wincing at the sharpness it left behind. “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare, I think.”

Before he could reach over with his left hand to shake his husband’s shoulder, Russandol had awoken, pushing himself up onto his elbow in one fluid motion and scanning the room as if expecting an attack to come at once. All traces of the frightened, wrecked _ nér _who had buried his face in Findekáno’s tunic were gone, and in their place was someone who, despite his emaciation and shaking limbs, was bracing himself for a fight. 

“What - ?” he began to ask, and then their bond washed over the both of them, newly sparked to life by their shared consciousness, and he moaned softly and fell back onto the mattress. 

“I am out,” he murmured faintly. “In… in Miþrim. And - !” He looked over at Findekáno, eyes still molten silver, and reached over with his right arm to try and pull the other _ nér _into an embrace. This goal was obfuscated by the fact that said arm had no fingers, and he muttered a curse in a language Findekáno did not know before shifting so he could use his left arm instead. 

“You are real,” he said when his husband was pressed close to his bandaged chest, though his voice was distant, as if he were speaking to himself alone. “This is real.”

“It is,” Findekáno answered, returning the embrace. He was awkwardly sandwiched against his husband, but he did not mind; he was beside Russandol, holding him, being held, able to follow where the ebb and flow of their bond led and press kiss after kiss to side and chest. His husband gasped, groaning; the warmth that had wrapped the both of them up grew deeper and more intense, and he gave himself over to it eagerly.

“Do - do we want - ?” Russandol began, only to be interrupted by a low grumble originating from somewhere around their waists. He frowned. “What is that?”

“Oh, damn,” Findekáno sighed. “Damn damn damn.”

“What is it?”

“My stomach growling,” he said, and reluctantly moved away from his husband. “Or yours, I suppose. I ought to get us food.”

“You ought to, but I was rather enjoying you kissing me.” The fear in Russandol had grown quieter, and settled, but it was still close enough to the forefront that he could hear it and feel it in every word.

“Do you want me to keep kissing you?”

“I do, but if you’re hungry, I want you to eat first, and then kiss me later.”

Findekáno groaned. “That means getting out of bed.”

“I could go,” Russandol offered. “I can’t remember the last time I stood upright.”

“Ignoring how horrified that makes me,” Findekáno said, “you are not walking at all. Healer’s orders. And besides, all you are wearing are bandages.” He smirked as he rolled over onto his back. “There are _ some _ parts of you I’d like to keep for myself.”

“Only some?” Russandol replied.

“Well. One part in especial.”

“Hah,” his husband answered, and he grinned and sat up and instantly regretted it. 

“Oh,” he said, shivering. “Oh this is awful.” 

“What is awful?” his husband asked. “Are you unwell?”

“No,” Findekáno said, frowning. “No, I - I feel…” He winced. _ How _ do _ I feel? _ Half of him was still lying in place on the mattress. He had four legs and four arms and three hands, his skin was pale pink and brown, his hair was intermingling crimson and black, and now he was attempting to take half of that and move it away from itself, to walk and to fetch and carry when it was impossible to tell who belonged in which _ hröa. _

“This was a horrible idea,” he said.

“Why?”

“How many legs do you have?”

“Four, why - _ oh. _ Oh _ no.” _

“Oh yes,” Findekáno said. “This is going to be interesting.” He slid to the edge of the bed, grounding himself against the one thing in the world that seemed solid, and began to scan the nearby ground for his discarded crutch. “Damn,” he sighed. “I think it fell under the bed.”

“What fell under the bed?”

“My crutch.”

“Why do you have a crutch?” Russandol asked, voice suddenly sharp and intensely focused. 

“Because when I saved you, I slammed face-first into the mountain and bled all over it and broke my nose and quite a few bones.”

“You what?”

“It was nothing, love,” Findekáno said, and poured out his own calm to staunch the shock and panic that were so quick to drown first Russandol and then him. “It - I will heal easily, see?” He turned back to look at his other half and waved his right hand. “This was all bound up in plaster as well, but it is good as new. My ankle is taking longer because I am not listening to Endanáro and Amdis, and I have been using it.”

“Finno,” Russandol said, and there was a prickle of reproach in his voice that sent ripples of heat through the air between them. 

“What?”

“You ought to listen to them. You are quite valuable to me, and to your people. And besides,” his husband continued, the same undertones returning to his voice, “you were given instruction, and you ignored it, and I would have more to say about that if I were not so weak.”

Findekáno shivered, and groaned both in arousal and frustration as he realized he’d grown hard yet again. _ Am I doomed to always be like this? _

_ I hope so, _ Russandol said. _ When I am feeling more myself, I plan to take advantage of it as often as possible. _

_ I am pleased enough at that thought that I cannot be annoyed with you for eavesdropping, _Findekáno replied, swinging two of his legs over the edge of the bed and testing the floor. It felt as if he were still lying on the mattress, and every movement was jerky and exaggerated, for half his limbs were still and heavy with fatigue. 

“All right,” he said aloud. “Let’s try this.”

He pushed up off of the bed, propelling himself onto his feet, took a step forward with his good leg, realized too late that it was less of a step and more of a spontaneous high kick, and promptly fell backward onto the floor. He landed with a loud _ smack _, shoulders and side taking the brunt of the impact, and all the air was driven out of his lungs at once as his head cracked against the wood. 

For several seconds, all he could do was lie still and gasp for air as the white that had filled his vision faded away, and when the roaring of his own blood in his ears had stopped, he realized he could hear a faint wheezing noise that sounded uncannily like laughter.

“What was _ that?” _Russandol demanded from his place in the bed; it had evidently been his laughter Findekáno had heard.

“Shut up,” the other _ nér _muttered, rolling onto his right side and flailing about with his left hand until he found the end of his crutch. 

“No, really,” Russandol said, sounding quite pleased with himself. “Did you Nolofinwëans pioneer some new method of locomotion during your long isolation?”

“I was _ trying _to walk,” Findekáno said grumpily, slamming his crutch against the floor. Two of his eyes were peering over the edge of the bed, and the other two were focused on the business of rising up from beneath it; he hoped that the crutch was both upright and in the proper position. 

“You aren’t very good at it,” his husband commented, and then had to keep back yet more laughter when this statement was proven true by the awkward, flailing leap that he took to get himself up from the prone position he had lain in. 

“I am _ fine,” _Findekáno answered, trying to ignore Russandol’s chuckling as he took one step, and then another. They seemed to be larger than he was used to, and he knew he was not supposed to cling to the crutch as if it were a walking stick or a dance partner, but he could not quite grasp where these feet were meant to go. 

“You look like the worst dancer in all of Aman got extremely drunk and then attempted a _ querië.” _Russandol informed him.

“So _ you _ try it, then!” he retorted.

“I can’t,” his husband said, and if he had been pleased with himself before he was practically soaked in his satisfaction now. “Healer’s orders. No walking.”

_ “Ai, ercalyë,” _ Findekáno said, and then groaned when their bond took this as an expression of intent. _ “No!” _

Russandol was helpless with laughter now, and not bothering to hide it. “Perhaps you ought to come back to bed, love.”

“And miss out on breakfast, when I skipped supper in favor of holding you? Endanáro would be annoyed. Apparently I am still quite near to starving.” He took a few more careful steps, painfully aware of the shuffling and thumping that was coming from this pair of his unsteady feet.

“And, I would guess, you mean to force _ me _ to eat something as well.”

“Yes, that is rather the point.”

“What am I being offered?”

“On the menu this morning is broth, I think, and perhaps some bread.”

“Oh, I am being spoiled!” his husband cried, and though his voice was light it seemed as though he was half-serious. “I cannot wait to see you attempt to bring me back a bowl of broth.”

“If I have anything to say about it, I won’t be doing the carrying,” Findekáno told him. “Not when it is all I can do to breathe and take steps at the same time.”

“Look on the bright side. You have not fallen on that face yet.”

“No, though that does not lend me much confidence. I used to be so _ graceful!” _

“And doubtless you will be graceful again! Neither Curvo nor Turukáno walk in such a manner, and _ they _are married.”

“For a moment I thought you meant ‘to each other’, and I was nearly sick,” Findekáno said.

“Ai, _ Eru, _ no,” Russandol answered, and they shuddered, their _ fëar _ still more or less intermingled. “That is the worst thing I have ever heard.” 

“Worse than your father’s ravings?” he asked, trying a few more steps. They were rushed, and still far too large, and he was making what seemed to him to be a ridiculous amount of noise as his crutch slammed into the floorboards again and again.

“I think I must be in Aulë’s own forges, the pounding is so great,” Russandol said, and Findekáno felt his other head incline and gesture towards him. 

“Are you going to shut up?” he asked.

“I will once you have learned how to walk.”

Findekáno resisted the temptation to make a rude gesture with the second and third fingers of his left hand.

“But, back to what I was saying earlier,” Russandol said, though there was a bright gleam in that pair of their eyes that suggested he was more than aware of what his other half had thought. “There has to be some sort of - solution, perhaps, to all this waddling. We cannot always be moving through life as though the whole earth is a frightful and restless sea.”

“I think,” Findekáno said, coming to a halt at last and spinning on his right ankle to face his husband, “that the solution is, erm…” He gestured down at the part of them that was upright, and at the still-present bulge in the breeches this _ hröa _wore. “Well. Coupling.”

“... _ oh,” _ Russandol answered, and winced yet again. “I… well, I cannot deny that we certainly seem to _ want _ it.”

“We do. Perhaps there is a reason Turukáno and Elenwë went away for those seventy months.”

“They were gone for seventy months? Curvo and Annamírë only went away for eighteen!”

“They found a little cabin by the coast. It was apparently very homely.”

“If only we were in Aman still,” Russandol said, sighing; Findekáno was suddenly dragged into bright memories of gold and silver Treelight that drenched the gentle slopes of the meadow they had spent so many days in. “We, too, could go away.”

“You could build us a cabin of our own, by the shores of that lake where we nearly wed before my father’s birthday banquet.”

“I doubt I shall ever make anything again,” his husband said. All the vigor had gone out of his voice suddenly, and when they breathed out again it was as if his good mood left with the air. He stared up at the ceiling, and then raised their second right arm to stare at it instead. Findekáno felt the movement and sighed and shook his head.

“You’re being silly, Russo,” he said, refraining from doing what he truly wanted and calling his husband an idiot. “Of course you will make things again.”

“You need two hands for that. And a far less broken mind.” 

The panic was back, a frantic, scrabbling fear that Findekáno could feel sinking into their shared awareness. _ I must do something to stop it, _he thought, brushing off Russandol’s scoffing dismissal. He clambered across the floor until he stood at the foot of the bed, and proceeded to hit the carved post nearest to him with his crutch.

“Stop it,” he said sternly. 

“Stop what.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself! You just woke up. You don’t yet know what you’re capable of.”

“You need two hands to build, to forge, to craft,” Russandol said to him, and shut his eyes. He lay very still, his whole body tense and rigid with fear and misery; it was a bruise on their bond, seeping black and red. 

Findekáno sighed yet again, and dropped his crutch, and climbed back into the bed. Moving to Russandol’s side a second time was far easier than walking had been, and when he lay against his husband and pulled the other _ nér’s _arms tight about his shoulders he realized for the first time how neatly they fit together. It brought tears to his eyes. 

_ I love you, _ he thought, and once more their bond and its warm ocean of sensation threatened to drown him. _ Oh, I love you. _

Russandol shuddered, and jerked; he wondered what was wrong, and then he felt the first of many hot tears drip down through his hair. 

_ I suppose I can stay in bed a while longer. _


	12. Trust This, Trust Us

It was the middle of the morning when Findekáno at last managed to tear himself away from Russandol’s side. His husband had fallen asleep again, frightened and frustrated and angry, and all the tension he had been clinging to bled out into their bond; it had taken quite a lot of effort to unwind it from their intertwined _ fëar. _ But finally, when Findekáno supposed he had done all he could - and despite being unsure he had done anything at all - he kissed the other _ nér _ on his temple, feeling the echo of his lips on his own skull, and slid out from the bed onto the floor again. This time, walking was somewhat easier, though he knew he still lurched from leg to leg like a drunken Teler aboard a raft in a storm. _ What an apt comparison, _ he thought as he stumbled toward the door. _ I, like a drunken Teler, have not lost my footing yet. _

When he reached the door, and began to fumble at the latch with half his hands, he turned to look back at Russandol. It was frightfully obvious how changed he was, now that the light was streaming in through the windows - he was still far too thin, and bleeding through his bandages in at least six places, and his hand shook when he raised it. But he was here, he was _ safe, _ and he would almost certainly recover now that his wounds were healing and no one was trying to murder him. That was far better than things had been before, and it was enough, for now. 

_ It must be enough, _ he thought, _ for it is all I have, really. _ His stomach growled again before he could sink too deeply into that thought, however, and he shrugged and managed to smile in a manner that almost felt natural.

“Onward to breakfast,” he said, and turned the latch, and opened the door.

The first few moments afterward seemed very nearly normal. He pivoted and shuffled completely out of Russandol’s room, and nodded to Aicatillë, who was seated across the hall with his sword on his knees while he ate what looked like a meat pasty of some sort. 

“Did you sleep well, _ haryon-nînya?” _the guard asked.

“Well enough,” Findekáno answered, and then started in surprise. “Wait - you - you were there all night?”

“I haven’t left my post since relieving Alcarinquar shortly after noon yesterday,” the _ nér _ told him, and his smile was warm and secure. “You are quite safe, don’t worry. As is _ condo-nînya _Maitimo.” 

“Noon?!” Findekáno cried, and he nearly lost his grip on his crutch and fell over. _ He - _ ai, muk, ércala muk, _ he was there for all of it, and these walls are _ not _ thick! _

“I will sleep as soon as I’m relieved, don’t worry,” Aicatillë said cheerfully. “My charge is ensuring that no one enters that room from this door, and keeping an ear out for any sounds of a struggle or forced entry from the window. And I take it rather seriously.”

Findekáno was blushing scarlet, and he knew it. _ He knows, _ he thought, and now it was his turn to panic. _ Oh, he knows, I am ruined! _

“You needn’t worry, you know,” Aicatillë said, startling him again. 

“I - what?”

“You needn’t worry about what I might have overheard,” the guard repeated. “Truly. I _ like _ you, _ haryon-nînya, _ and I have no desire to go mucking about in your personal business. Yes, I must be aware of what passes behind closed doors, but that is my duty as laid down by your father and my King.” He smiled more brightly. “As far as I could tell you, you spent the night in conversation with your much-missed cousin and dear friend _ condo _Nelyafinwë. At one point early this morning, I think you tried to retrieve your crutch from where it had fallen, and had a bit of difficulty with it. That is all I know, and all I will say when asked.”

Findekáno stared at him, openmouthed, as the blush spread down to shoulders and collarbones. _ He… he likes me? People _ like _ me?! As a whole? I mean - well, evidently they do, or else I would not be in this position - oh, _ say _ something, you idiot! Accept this gift and _say something!

“You…” he managed at last, still gaping. “I - thank you.”

“Of course,” Aicatillë answered, smiling. “Now, if you hurry, you will just catch the end of breakfast. There will be scones and tea after, of course, but the cooks have managed something delicious with eggs, or so I am told.”

“Eggs _ do _ sound good,” he admitted, and turned as best he could to face towards the end of the hallway and the door that led into the house proper. “Thank you, Aicatillë.”

“You’re welcome, _ haryon-nînya,” _the guard said, and returned his attention to his own breakfast.

Findekáno found out very quickly that while he had mastered the fine art of staying upright while his _ fëa _ was tethered to another, he was not yet even a little proficient in walking in such a state. Gone were the great galloping near-leaps of his time in Russandol’s bedroom, but he was still lunging back and forth, his whole _ hröa _ thrown into each step forward. _ I really do look like a drunken Teler, _ he thought miserably, _ but I do not know how to _ stop. The end of the hall loomed before him, growing closer and closer in unsteady surges, and it occurred to him that he had no real idea of what he would be doing once he reached that door and the rooms beyond. _ My family might be all waiting there, eating breakfast together, and I will come stumbling into their midst like a dog chasing _ porocelli! _ And then I shall have to _ explain _ myself, and it will all come out. _

_ Well, I cannot go without breakfast. I will simply have to perfect my stride before leaving this hallway. _

Findekáno was so focused on this that he failed to notice the door in front of him opening, or the tall, green-clad figure who stepped through it. But suddenly, when he tore his gaze up from the floorboards and the placement of each careful step, he found himself staring at the bewildered face of his _ atarnésa _Lalwendë, who was holding a scone in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. She had shut the door behind her, and she looked as if she was about to burst into fits of laughter.

“I can explain - !” Findekáno began, but before he could finish, she had shoved her scone into her mouth and seized him firmly with her newly-freed hand. He barely managed to cry out in protest before she had dragged him from the hall into a room he had never been in before and shut the door firmly behind them both. 

_ “Mana?” _he demanded; she took hold of her scone again and bit through it, chewing and swallowing. 

“You need to go lay down again,” she informed him once her mouth was empty. Her eyes were alight with mirth. “Unless you want the whole household to be gossipping about your mystery spouse.”

Findekáno winced. “Is it that obvious?”

“You looked like a colt newly introduced to stone-paved streets,” Lalwendë said, and finally gave herself over to a fit of giggles. 

“It isn’t funny!” he protested, but she shook her head.

“You looked so like your father after his own wedding that I could not help but laugh.”

“I don’t understand,” Findekáno told her. “It was never this bad on the Ice, or just after our true marriage!”

“Were you really open with one another?” she asked him. “Did you give your bond time to grow, and settle in?”

“No,” he admitted, looking down at the floor. “I shoved everything that I felt deep inside myself. And then I think something happened in Angamando, to Russ - to Maitimo. Because it was all in shreds when I found him again on the cliff, and it wasn’t truly itself again until - well, until just now, honestly.”

“I am unmarried and therefore am no true expert on marriage-bonds,” his _ atarnésa _ said, “but I would guess that it has something to do with willingness to feel. _ Ósanwë _is a tricky thing, and demands openness of heart and mind. I doubt a bond is much different.”

“Hm,” Findekáno said. He tried for a moment to separate himself out from his husband, and perhaps gain some measure of solitude again; it was a pointless quest, however, and left him only feeling dizzy. “That would make sense.”

“What in Arda possessed you to get out of bed in the first place?” Lalwendë asked. “You cannot _ walk!” _

“I had little choice!” Findekáno protested. “Endanáro will have my head if I miss yet another meal, and Russ - Maitimo cannot rise and serve himself.”

“Do you or don’t you have a valet?” 

Findekáno froze mid-reply, and felt himself blush again. In all the excitement of Russandol’s awakening, he had quite forgotten about poor Súlwë.

“I do,” he said, wincing. “I very much do.”

“Then go back to bed, and I will ask him to come to you,” Lalwendë instructed firmly. “No, don’t argue with me.”

“But - !”

“No buts,” Lalwendë said firmly. “None.” She waved him off with the hand that still held a mug of tea. “Get out of my room and let me eat my scone in peace.”

“This is your room?” Findekáno asked, glancing about to see how his _ atarnésa _ had decorated. It was simple, and mostly unadorned, but there were bunches of leaves arranged into bouquets on the windowsill and the dresser, and a few embroidered pieces of canvas hanging from the walls that he recognized as Itarillë’s stitchwork exercises. 

“Did you get permission to snoop?” Lalwendë asked in response, and made a dismissive motion punctuated by her tea. “No, you did not, and so I’m telling you again. Get out, and go lay down, and I will send Súlwë to you with something to eat.”

“But what about - ?”

“For _ both _ of you.”

Defeated, Findekáno nodded, and awkwardly maneuvered himself back to her door.

“I was doing quite well on my own, you know,” he said, and Lalwendë chuckled. The sound was shrill, and sharp, and gave the impression that she had barely curtailed a peal of true laughter.

“You were walking upright,” she said; when he looked over his shoulder at her, her eyes were bright and mirthful. “That does _ not _ mean you were doing well.”

“Hush,” Findekáno said. “I have to find a way to open your door with only two of my hands.”

This only made her laugh harder, but he shook off her glee and fumbled with the latch until it opened up. 

“I’ll make your excuses to your father,” she said. “Though Írissë may come see you later.”

“The both of us?”

“I don’t see why not. He’s her cousin too.”

Findekáno had to admit that she was right. _ And it is not as if she doesn’t know… _

“Tell her - well, tell everyone, actually - that I think Rus - Maitimo might be ready to actually greet everyone,” he said. “He won’t be getting out of bed, but he’s lucid, and clear-headed, and it… I think it would be good.”

“I will,” Lalwendë replied as he opened the door. “I think I may come see the two of you sooner rather than later, actually.” 

“All right,” he said, and made his way back into the hall.

* * *

Russandol was awake when Findekáno came back into the room, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. He turned his head just enough to see his husband, and then returned to puzzling over the imperfections in the plaster.

“Súlwë is bringing breakfast for the both of us,” Findekáno said, shutting the door again. Aicatillë was still outside, at least for a while longer, and so he was less cautious than he might have been.

“Súlwë?” Russandol asked.

“Ah. Right. Do you remember Súliwendë?”

Russandol frowned, twisting his bandages up as his face moved and shutting his eyes, but at last he nodded. “The… the rope-maker? I think, at least.”

“You are right,” Findekáno said. “Well, it is Súlwë now - he changed his _ kilmessë _ and his _ hröa _while I was away, and as we have no immediate need for rope-makers, he has become my valet, and taken over duties that otherwise I would be doing for myself.”

“Such as?” 

“Helping me to dress, while I am thusly encumbered,” he answered, gesturing at his leg. “And fixing my hair, though I need to teach him what I like.”

Russandol flinched, pain flaring up in his eyes for a moment. 

_ Oh, _Findekáno thought, wincing. He had been avoiding the memories of his husband’s hands in his hair, of deft fingers twisting and braiding; suddenly he could think of nothing else, and he knew that Russandol was much the same.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but it was too late, and they were both brimming with hurt and simmering anger.

“It’s all right,” Russandol muttered, but it wasn’t, and they knew it.

“I hope Moringotto sits on one of those tacks your father used to use to pin up his blueprints,” Findekáno muttered, clambering across the floor to sit on the edge of the bed. He propped his crutch up against the mattress and slid further back, nearer to Russandol.

“He only has a body when it is convenient for him,” his husband muttered. “I doubt your curse will hit home.”

“I can try, at least,” Findekáno said, leaning back on the headboard of the bed. For perhaps half a minute, they were silent, and then Russandol spoke again.

“What are we going to _ do, _ Finno?” 

“Do?” he asked. “About what?”

“About - about _ this,” _ his husband said, lifting his right arm up to gesture at the both of them. “About _ us.” _

“Ah,” Findekáno replied. “Well, I - I mean, I had assumed that we could speak to my father, sooner rather than later, and -”

“You _ told _ him?!” Russandol cried, pushing himself up on his elbows and staring up at the other _ nér, _horrified. 

“No!” Findekáno answered, and then raised one hand to signal for quiet. “And these walls are quite thin, and I can’t speak to the discretion of every guard in this house. We need to be calm.”

“Calm,” Russandol scoffed, but he nodded, and when he continued, his voice was low. “I - no. No. We cannot tell him. We cannot tell a soul.”

_ It is rather late for that, _Findekáno thought, but said nothing, and then realized frantically that Russandol would be able to hear that. He seized at his words, and shoved them down deep into himself, and hoped it was good enough. His husband did not seem to respond; he guessed he had succeeded.

“Why not?” he asked. “What - what is so very dangerous about this?”

The other _ nér _looked up at him with an expression that indicated he thought his husband was quite an idiot.

“My father stranded your whole host on the western shores,” he said. “I tried to stop him, and I stood aside when they all set to burning the ships, but it happened. Do you really think our people will be so forgiving as to say we can marry with no trouble?”

“But - but surely, if your father had _ known, _he wouldn’t have - !”

“He _ did _ know,” Russandol said, and his voice was heavy with anger and grief, and Findekáno froze. “I - I did not _ tell _him, but when I tried to turn his thought back from his fears of treachery, he called me a traitor, and accused me of sleeping with our enemies, and set fire to the damned things anyway.”

“I… _ what?!” _

“I don’t know how he guessed it,” his husband said. “But he knew. And he looked as though he wished to run me through with his sword. He - he was well and truly mad, before the end. He would have turned on any of us, for anything.” Russandol took a deep breath, his shoulders shaking. “He let Pityo burn, and forbade us to rescue him, and said he would slay anyone who tried, for it was a treasonous act.”

“Treasonous, to save an innocent life?”

“He assumed rightly that my brother wished to go home, and he guessed that some of us might have taken a ship back to return him to plead for mercy.”

Findekáno was aghast. “I - I knew Ambarto had died, but I thought - !”

“You thought it was a dreadful accident? So do most of my people.” Russandol’s eyes were grim, and dulled by fury; he looked impossibly weary, as if this conversation was stretching him thin to the breaking point. “But you see now why we must keep this a secret. It may not be only us who suffer if it becomes public knowledge.” 

“My father is not your father,” Findekáno said, but even as he answered, a cold dread was rising up in his heart. He remembered Súlwë waking him after the feast, and the plot against Russandol, and his dismay and fear at the thought of such resentment festering in the hearts of his own people, and his father’s insistence that they ought to have peace. _ I cannot guarantee his safety, _ he realized, not bothering to stifle the thought. _ Not yet. _

_ And so you understand, _ Russandol told him in the same fashion. His left hand seized Findekáno’s, pale and dark skin intermingling. _ We must be careful. For now, and possibly for forever. _

_ I understand, _Findekáno answered, though he found himself dizzy with shock and fear, and then started back against the bed as Russandol sagged down against him.

_ I am spent, _ his husband said silently. _ I think all my strength went into recounting that dreadful night. _

_ Then rest, _ Findekáno said. _ When Súlwë arrives, I will wake you. _

_ Thank you, _Russandol said, and went to sleep.

* * *

When Súlwë arrived, Russandol was still dozing. He had not dragged his husband after him into darkness this time, and so Findekáno was able to sit up and arrange himself into some semblance of normalcy when the knock at the door came. 

“Come in,” he called, settling Russandol beside him. 

“I brought some help,” Súlwë answered as the door opened. He was bearing a heavily-laden tray in his free hand, and beside him was Itarillë, who carried a large and steaming mug in both her hands and had a determined expression on her face. 

“Hello!” Findekáno told her, smiling.

She frowned up at him. “Why are you in the same bed as he is?” she asked, looking up from her burden for long enough to decide her _ atarháno _confused her.

“Because he is cold,” Findekáno laughed, “and I am warm, and can keep him from shivering. And because he sometimes doesn’t know where he is when he wakes, but he recognizes me.”

“Hm,” Itarillë said. “I brought him lunch.”

“Lunch?” Findekáno asked, glancing at Súlwë. “What about breakfast?”

“It is too late to be truly called breakfast,” his valet said, and then laughed. “It’s also too early for lunch.”

“But it’s _ nearly _ lunch,” Itarillë said, and then leaned up onto her toes to try and look at Russandol. “Is he asleep?”

“Yes,” Findekáno said.

“No,” Russandol groaned, shifting and opening his eyes. “Let me guess. It is time for more broth.”

Itarillë started back, and then had to make a lot of awkward movements with her arms to keep from spilling broth everywhere. Súlwë winced as well, and Findekáno realized that his husband’s voice was harsh and grating, far from the fair _ lunguomëa _ it had once been. Russandol realized it too, and they were both blushing; he looked down at the blankets and composed himself quickly. 

“Yes,” said Findekáno, as if everything were perfectly normal and it were any other morning in his memory. “Can you sit up?”

“I can,” Russandol told him, using his elbows to position himself both against the headboard and against his husband. Findekáno was acutely aware of each awkward, jerky movement; he could feel Súlwë and Itarillë watching in uneasy silence. _ What are you staring at? _ he thought venomously, doing his best to keep his sudden anger from the _ nér _ at the other end of his bond. _ He has been imprisoned, he is not some kind of comic entertainment! _

_ It’s all right, _ Russandol answered him, meeting his sharp-edged anger with warmth. _ I _ have _ been maimed, and tortured, and it _ is _ something they have never seen before. They are not mocking me, or jeering, or watching for weakness, and I will not have to decide if either of them live or die based upon how well I sit up. Let them stare. I truly am not bothered by it. _

_ But _ I _ am, _ Findekáno shot back, keeping his eyes downcast to prevent either his friend or his _ hánoanel _ from noticing the fury in his expression. _ They ought to treat you like they would anyone else! _

_ And they _ will, _ I think - I hope, anyway, _ Russandol answered, at last resting against his side and shoulder. He was trembling, and clearly still exhausted. _ You must give them time to get used to me. Now. Feed me, and then I will go back to sleep. This is enough, for today. _

Findekáno didn’t know what his husband meant by “enough”, but he nodded, and when he looked back at the other two _ eldar _his face was far calmer.

“If you could put my own food on the end table,” he said, “and hand me the broth, that would be lovely.”

“Why are _ you _getting the broth?” Itarillë asked, but she gave it to him anyway as Súlwë obeyed his lord’s order. 

“Because,” Findekáno said, “Maitimo cannot feed himself yet. I must help him.”

“Oh,” the _ wendë _answered, though he could tell she did not truly understand. “Will you be at dinner?”

“I will see what happens,” he told her. “I should _ like _to eat dinner with you, but it will depend upon how I am feeling, and how Maitimo is feeling.”

“Can’t someone else take care of him?” she asked, and Findekáno could barely stop the blazing protective _ No! _ that roared up out into his throat. _ Too much has happened to him, too much _ might _ happen to him, no, _ no, _ I cannot, I _will not - !

_ “Atarháno?” _Itarillë said. He realized he had been staring very intently at her while his right hand found Russandol’s left and gripped it tight.

“No one else can,” he said, forcing his breathing to slow. “We… we all have our duties to attend to, and this is mine.”

“Oh,” she said again, stepping back a little from the bed. _ I hope I didn’t frighten her too badly, _Findekáno thought, and he tried to smile weakly and feared it looked ridiculous. 

“I will see you later,” he said. “All of you. And it will not be very long, I promise.”

“It had better not be long,” Itarillë informed him. “I _ miss _ you, and we have to go looking for flowers for the house soon!”

“Oh, we do?” he asked, and realized with a pang of guilt that he would have to bow out of the same outing they had taken last year to decorate their home. _ Russandol needs me; I cannot spare a minute for anything else. _

“We do,” she said. “No one else has as good of an eye for colors as you.”

“That’s a high compliment indeed, considering who I am living with,” he said. “We will talk about it later, though.” _ And I will explain to you that I cannot, and beg Írissë to go in my stead, and probably hurt your feelings quite deeply, but it cannot be helped. _

To her credit, Itarillë did not look convinced, but it was clear that now was not the time to press the issue, and so she sighed and stepped back from the bed. 

“You have scones, and tea, and a slice of egg pie,” Súlwë informed him. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No,” Findekáno said, and this time his smile was genuine. “Thank you. You’ve been wonderful.”

“I’ve done very little, _ haryon-nînya,” _Súlwë replied as Itarillë giggled.

“All he did was bring breakfast!” she said.

“Oh, so _ now _it is breakfast? What happened to lunch?” Findekáno teased, and she laughed louder. 

“You know what I mean,” she told him, and he felt himself grin. 

“I do. Now, I have to feed my poor invalid cousin,” he said. “And I don’t need an audience for that.” 

Súlwë bowed at the waist, bringing his right arm across his chest. 

“That would be my cue to leave,” he said, looking down at Itarillë. “I will escort _ aranel-nînya _back to her father, and then I have some business to finish up with regard to your wardrobe.”

“My wardrobe?” Findekáno asked, as Itarillë giggled over being referred to so formally. 

“I’m going to undo the seams on your trousers, and then fix their hems so the edges aren’t raw,” Súlwë explained. “On the left legs, I mean. So that you have things to wear, until your ankle is healed.”

Findekáno almost scoffed. “I hardly think that’s necessary,” he said.

“It will be, if you don’t listen to Endanáro and you keep walking on your ankle when you ought to be in bed,” his valet said, and there was an air of sardonic criticism in his voice.

“Oh, hush,” Findekáno retorted, and Itarillë giggled even more when Súlwë raised an eyebrow in an almost perfect imitation of Nolofinwë when he was feeling smug. 

“Can we have this conversation elsewhere, so that I might sleep?” Russandol murmured. Fatigue had made his voice even more harsh, and Itarillë jumped again despite herself. 

“Yes,” Findekáno said. “They are leaving, and then I will feed you, and you can go back to bed, and I will find my valet and have this conversation with him at a significantly better time.”

“Of course, _ haryon-nînya,” _Súlwë said, still smiling. He offered Itarillë his hand; she took it, and they made their way to the door.

When at last Findekáno and Russandol were alone again, the former let out a deep sigh.

“That went well,” he said. 

“I suppose,” Russandol said. “Can I eat, so I can go back to sleep?”

“Of course,” Findekáno said. “Sit up for me?”

His husband obeyed, and then it was simple to lift the mug to his lips, and help him take a few small sips of the cooling broth.

“You can swallow well enough, can’t you?” Findekáno asked, and when Russandol nodded he pressed a kiss to his husband’s forehead. 

“Good,” he said. “I… I’d like this to be easy for you, and not miserable.”

_ It isn’t ever miserable, _ Russandol told him, and the sudden relieved warmth that poured into his head brought tears to his eyes. _ Not with you here. _

“I… I’m so glad,” Findekáno murmured, and kissed his forehead again. 

The rest of the broth was relatively quick to be consumed, and then Findekáno sat back and ate his own meal and found himself talking at his husband about more or less anything that popped into his mind. Russandol shut his eyes and listened but did not join in the conversation, leaning on his side once more and clinging to his right arm. By the time he had finished the dregs of his tea, he found himself rousing the other _ nér _yet again, helping him to sit up so that he could use a bedpan and then settling him back under the blankets when that was over. He’d needed to stand up for this, and he was relieved to find that the floor was a little more steady under his feet.

“Will you be all right if I go see Súlwë about my trousers?” he asked, and Russandol shrugged sleepily. 

“So long as you come back,” he said. “I sleep better when you’re here.”

Findekáno smiled, and then bent down and kissed his husband’s forehead a third time. Both his hands found Russandol’s, and he smiled as best he could despite the ocean of warmth that threatened to drown him. 

“I won’t leave you for long,” he promised. “You can kick me out of bed if I do.”

“I will certainly take you up on that offer,” his husband answered, and then sighed. “But first, sleep. I’m exhausted.”

“I’ll be back,” Findekáno said again, and then limped around the bed to pick up his crutch again. There was no answer, and he slipped out of the room as quietly as he could and shut the door behind him.

Aicatillë was gone; in his place was a guard whose name Findekáno did not recall. “I will be back soon, I hope,” he said. “Please come find me if he wakes.”

“I will,” the _ nís _told him, and bowed slightly at the waist as he hobbled down the hall a second time. He still felt like a drunken Teler, but he had to admit that if he focused hard enough, he could make his steps approximate their normal size, and he could minimize the lurching from side to side that had characterized his earliest attempts at walking. He hoped that he was not as obvious now as he had been that morning, for this guard was one who he did not know, but he decided to blame it all upon a particularly bad day for his ankle if he was asked.

Thankfully, his room was the opposite direction from the rest of the house, very near to the end of the wing, and when he reached it, he felt nearly normal again. The door was open, and Súlwë was seated on his bed, examining the pair of leather trousers that had been Russandol’s and that he had so grievously mistreated on his journey north.

“These are much too big for you,” his valet said as he walked through the door. “Where did you get them?”

“I inherited them,” Findekáno said. “I wore them on the Ice.”

“Do you want me to hem them properly, and take them to fit you?” Súlwë asked. “As it is, they will fall off of you, and trail behind you on the floor when you walk.”

“No!” Findekáno said, and then winced at how forcefully he had spoken. The other _ nér _raised an eyebrow at him, this time curious rather than gently condescending.

“No,” he repeated. “I - they have - they’re very _ sentimental _to me.”

“Sentimental enough that you would willingly trip over them?”

He sighed, and his face turned to a pained expression. “I… yes?”

“Are you asking me if that is the case, _ haryon-nînya?” _

“I don’t know,” Findekáno groaned, walking over to the bed and sitting down out of reach of the piles of clothes. “I just don’t want them altered, all right?”

Súlwë glanced at them for a while longer, and then nodded. “They’re _ his, _ aren’t they? _ Condo-nînya _Nelyafinwë’s.”

“... perhaps,” he said, and winced, waiting for the inevitable question. But Súlwë only nodded again, and folded them up and handed them to him.

“Then they won’t be changed,” he said, utterly serious. “I can see they mean quite a lot to you.” 

“They do,” Findekáno said gratefully. “I… thank you.”

The two of them stayed that way for some time, sitting side by side in companionable silence, as the Sun began to sink lower in the sky. For once, Findekáno found he could breathe easily.

_ I have allies, _ he thought, still holding fast to Russandol’s trousers. _ I… I have _ friends, _ even. _

_ Perhaps this will all work out in the end. _


	13. Better Than It Was

The days wound on, one after the other, and as they passed, Maitimo found himself slowly but surely growing stronger. Within a week, he was able to spend the time from sunrise to sunset awake and lucid, though he was so exhausted by nightfall that he fell into sleep too deep to dream in; after a fortnight, he was free of nearly all his bandages, and given leave to find things to do while he waited for the deep gash in his hip to heal. It was the last of his wounds to cling to what he supposed passed for life, rather than close up and turn to scars and scabs, and until it was no longer a great open maw of raw flesh, he was forbidden to get out of bed except to sit on the edge of it for a bedpan. 

He had very nearly died getting that gash, and he had been attempting to die in the first place. It was one of the few moments when he was left with another thrall and they were  _ not  _ bound hand and foot by heavy iron shackles; he had whispered a faint plea for mercy and kindness in that  _ elda’s  _ ear, and had been answered with welcome hands about his throat and a shove to the sandy floor. It had been a faint hope that death would find him quickly, and ultimately it was a doomed one, for their guards had noticed and had attempted to separate them. They had tried to move as one, scrambling back from the hands that might stop their mutually-sought end, but they were stopped. One of the orcs had thrown his weapon, a wickedly sharp lance meant for spearing defiant or escaping  _ móli,  _ and it had pierced through his hip and torn a ragged line down the curve of the joint. 

The wound had gone untreated - he was informed that it was his own fault he had suffered it, and so it would have to heal or fester on its own - and now, Endanáro was worried that if he did not spare the limb from any unnecessary movement, he might lose the leg to rot as he had lost his hand. 

“I do not want that,” he had said at his last meeting with the chief healer. “I - I cannot imagine what sort of person I would be without a leg. How useless I would be.”

Endanáro had looked at him sharply, eyes flashing beneath dark brows, and he had been reminded suddenly that the  _ nér  _ before him was at least as old as his grandfather. 

“You are being self-deprecating,” the healer had informed him, “and more than a little ridiculous. Even if you  _ did  _ lose the leg, you would  _ not  _ be useless. We are Noldor. Where there is no way forward, we  _ make  _ one. If your leg must be amputated, we will do so, and do all we can to ensure your recovery, and surely, there are enough craftsmen among our people to ensure you can ride a horse afterwards!”

They had parted ways with Endanáro convinced that their debate was over and he had been the winner, but Maitimo himself was unconvinced.  _ I am named for my beauty,  _ he had thought before losing himself in examining a bird that had perched on his windowsill.  _ Without that, what am I? _

It was a question he pondered over again and again, failing to reach an answer every time it surfaced in his thought. Findekáno was unhelpful, insisting that he would always be lovely in the eyes of his husband. Privately, he thought that his husband would find him lovely if he were a Maia who took the form of a large pile of dung, but he knew that this accusation would be fiercely debated for weeks on end if he ever bothered to voice it aloud. Endanáro was equally useless in this debate - he was unsure if the stolid, serious healer was capable of any emotion save “certainty of success”. The only other people he had met were Amdis (brimming with furious determination that propelled her to attack everything in her path as though it were an orc standing between her and her weekly rations) and Súlwë (quiet, and kind, but reserved, with thoughts deeper than the deepest pits in Utumno) and his cousin Itarillë, and they had given him no sign as to what they thought of him as a whole  _ nér,  _ appearance and all. Amdis had focused exclusively on the work of changing his bandages while Endanáro saw to his hip and Findekáno looked on worriedly, and Súlwë he had only seen the once. Neither of them had given him any sign that he was particularly ugly, though Itarillë had stared wide-eyed at him in the unabashed way that all  _ hínar  _ did when they were surprised at something.

The staring did not bother him - it would have, before the Darkening, or perhaps even before his capture, but he had been a spectacle for orcs and thralls and Úmaiar and even for Moringoþo himself, and he was used to prying eyes taking him to pieces.  _ Besides, she has not seen me in her living memory, and here I am all wrecked and patched together.  _

_ Súlwë stared too,  _ he thought in response, and then sighed.  _ But he would probably tell me he was dismayed to find me so reduced from my former self.  _

_ That is probably the only answer I will get from  _ any  _ of my ordinary visitors, husband included.  _

He let the thought drop for a moment, instead counting the stitches in the seam of his blanket and noting where the maker had run out of one sort of thread and been forced to use another.  _ If I were a poet,  _ he mused,  _ I would write a few lines on that, and treat it as some sort of metaphor for new beginnings after great loss, or as the grand truth of life, that even if you must make some sort of great change, you can still be someone who is valued and loved and no one will mind the differences, just as I do not care that the thread is now white rather than cream. _

_ Thankfully, I am not a poet. That would be an absolutely  _ dreadful  _ piece of verse. No, if I am going to be satisfied, truly satisfied? I must see more people, and gauge their reactions. They will tell me whether or not I am hideous, and do so honestly.  _

This satisfied him, and he nodded to himself, returning his attention to the blanket. He did his best to ignore the quiet, persistent  _ but what if I  _ am  _ ugly?  _ that was suddenly growing at the back of his mind. That was, thankfully, a problem for another day.

* * *

Findekáno was in surprisingly high spirits. It had been sixteen days since his marriage-bond had sparked anew, and in that time he had managed to master walking well enough. Gone were his large, awkward, twisting steps, and in their place was the gait that he had known for so long before. That morning, Amdis had finally taken the cast from his ankle, and proclaimed him as close to healed as he was likely to get, and he had spent the day wandering through their encampment and observing what he had missed in these last frantic weeks.

The excavated cave for the forge was finished, propped up and supported by beams of wood cut from a tree that had been felled by lightning in a recent storm, and Isilórë, who had been placed in charge of the project, had told him that they were ready to begin the serious work of making tools and nails and weapons just as soon as they could find some way to trade for an anvil. 

“The  _ Artaran _ will not let us fell any trees, or take any living wood unless out of uttermost need, or quarry for stone,” he said, “but we can fortify our tents, and we can expand our plowing, and we can perhaps build fences for paddocks and coops. I have been told that any trees that were brought down by storms or disease or disaster are ours, more or less, and there were several oaks that last week’s lightning left on the ground.”

“Why are we so cautious?” Findekáno asked. “I know that my father is concerned about the Sindarin King, since these lands are under his claim, but we must  _ live,  _ surely!”

“It’s in case we are asked to move,” the youth told him. Isilórë was dark-eyed and dark-haired after the fashion of so many of the Noldor, though his skin was pale and betrayed some measure of Telerin ancestry, and his expression was bright and animated as he spoke. “We have not yet had any formal negotiation with the Sindar, though they have been gracious and permitted us to dwell in what was once a hunting-ground, and so  _ Aran  _ Nolofinwë has asked that we only take those steps that can be sincerely argued to be necessary for our survival. He says that we are meant to be - well,  _ different  _ from our estranged cousins.”

Findekáno sighed, and found himself glancing across the lake towards its southern shores and the far-off walls of the Fëanárian stockade. His thoughts had turned more and more towards his cousins as the days wore on and Russandol grew stronger and more like himself, but now he was envious of what they had built rather than nervous at what their nearness meant.  _ If they knew their brother was here,  _ he thought for what must have been the hundredth time,  _ they would come and take him from us, and set him up as lord of his own House again. And I know - I know I cannot keep him back from his doom, only… _

He never knew what the great ache was in his chest when he considered the looming future, he only knew that it left him frightened and desperate and desiring nothing more than the comfort of his husband’s arms.

_ “Haryon-nînya?”  _ Isilórë asked him, and he blinked suddenly and realized he had lost himself in thought.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and smiled somewhat self-deprecatingly. “I am wishing that for once we were a little more like them, and not so determinedly apart.”

“Proper houses would be nice,” the youth said, and shrugged. “If the cold comes again, we can weather it, and - !”

“Again?” Findekáno asked, alarmed. “Why would it come  _ again?”  _

“I am only repeating what I have heard, from some of us who have bothered to speak to the trees here,” Isilórë said. “And there is - you can  _ feel  _ it, in the earth, if you let yourself. Things here move in cycles and in rings, ever progressing and doubling back on themselves. I think there will be another cold, and then another thaw, and then warm days like these, and then a cooling time, and then the whole thing shall repeat again.”

“And this will just - go on, for always?” Findekáno asked dubiously.

“That is my guess, though of course I cannot be  _ sure.” _

“I don’t like it,” he said, and then chuckled when Isilórë frowned. “I know I cannot  _ change  _ it, but I don’t like it - how am I to do anything at all when in just a few weeks the world will be on its head?” 

“Things move faster here, I think,” the youth replied. “We have planted some, and you ought to go look at it - we only laid down seed this past thaw, before you arrived, and yet already our crops are ripening.”

“Hm,” Findekáno answered. “If that is the case, then the cycles may not be our ruin after all.”

“My hope is that if there  _ is  _ another freeze, by the next thaw, we will have a plow,” Isilórë told him. “Then we could have proper fields for true crops, and not spend all our time gathering and foraging and going more and more into debt with the Sindar. But where we will get the iron for it, and the tools, and the anvil - that remains to be seen.” He grew suddenly serious, and his dark eyes seemed to grow darker with concern. “The anvil will be a problem.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know if the Sindar use anvils at all. It is the Arafinwëans who spearheaded the efforts to trade with them, and who speak their tongue fluently; we have gotten food from them, and some rope and a few things crafted of wood and bone and glassy stone, but nothing truly  _ forged  _ as you or I would know it. And even if they  _ did _ have an anvil, I doubt they would give it to us. All we have that is valuable is already in their hands, and we are too different to offer up help in labor or in the pursuit of knowledge.”

Findekáno sighed. Isilórë was right, of course, and he could see now why his father had been so keen on mentoring the youth, but hearing the truth from a reliable source did not make him any happier with it.

“There is somewhere else we might look for an anvil,” he said, and even as he spoke he scoffed. House Fëanáro giving up the tools of their trade in the name of peace and alliance was roughly as likely as Moringotto turning himself into a fly and choosing to be eaten by a garden spider.

“Unless we  _ steal  _ it, we will not  _ get  _ it,” Isilórë remarked, and for a moment Findekáno seriously considered sneaking across the lake at the dead of night and attempting such a heist. 

“We need it more than they do,” he said. “And they can always make another one. I have heard from Artaresto that  _ they  _ have a  _ mine, _ and a quarry.”

“If only we cared so little for land rights,” Isilórë remarked, and then shook his head. “I have to get back to work - the excavations are done, but I am tasked with assembling a list of all we shall need for a fully working forge, and seeing what we can build ourselves.” He smiled ruefully. “The rest will need to be traded for, though I don’t see how we can manage it.”

“I will do what I can,” Findekáno promised.

“Thank you,” Isilórë said, and then turned to go back into the low cave. 

Findekáno made his way towards the single tilled field that Isilórë had mentioned, walking back along the shores of the lake and skirting the edges of the rows of tents that made up the bulk of his people’s homes. As he passed by, he was greeted by smiles, and occasional shouts of welcome; he returned each of them with a matching grin and what words of thanks he could muster up. The problem of the anvil was vexing him - they had weapons, and some armor, though it was not enough for sustained war, and he knew it.  _ If Moringotto decides to strike us first,  _ he thought,  _ we are doomed, unless the host across the lake deigns to help us. _

_ They might, though,  _ he countered,  _ since Russandol is alive, and  _ we  _ saved him.  _

_ Or they will assume I rescued him only for his worth as a hostage, and not out of the kindness of my heart, and they will let Moringotto slaughter every last  _ elda  _ within our camp after taking pains to get him safe behind their stockade walls.  _

“Findekáno!”

The cry that brought him up out of his musing was high-pitched and eager; he paused and looked over his shoulder to see Itarillë and Írissë drawing close to where he walked. Itarillë was nearly up to her chest in the tall grasses, but she was gamely pressing on, and his sister bore a basket under one arm. He could see Turukáno behind the both of them, carrying his own basket and walking more slowly. 

“Hello!” he cried, and when his  _ hánoanel  _ reached him and threw her arms around his waist, he returned her embrace with a wide smile. 

“You’re walking!” she said. 

“I am,” he informed her. “And thank Estë for it, I was getting tired of crutches.”

“This means you can come with me tomorrow!” Itarillë informed him, smiling broadly.

“What?”

“I  _ was  _ going to have to with Írissë and Atya,” she said, “because Artanís says there will be another storm in two days or so, and it will be too late for flower gathering if we don’t go now. But you’re walking, so  _ we  _ can go!”

_ Ah. Right.  _ The memory of his promise to the  _ wendë  _ stung - he had tried not to say ‘no,’ when she had asked before, but he had not exactly said ‘yes’ either - and the thought of what he would have to say to her now stung even more. 

“I - !” he began, only to be interrupted by Írissë.

“Were you telling Findekáno about your plans for tomorrow?” she asked Itarillë, who nodded excitedly.

“He can walk and carry things again, so it’ll be fine,” she said, sounding almost as airy and lofty as Artanís for a moment. 

“I’m not sure I can - !” Findekáno tried again, but Írissë stopped him with a cold look. 

“You should get out of that house,” she told him. “And Itarillë has been looking forward to going with you for weeks now.”

“But - !”

“No buts,” she said, smiling faintly at him. “You have a life outside of a sickroom, you know.” 

_ Please,  _ he thought silently, not quite speaking to her but hoping she could somehow understand him. He caught her gaze with his own, making direct eye contact and hoping that would somehow tell her what he meant to say.  _ I cannot leave Russandol. I can’t, not for that long - what if he needs me?  _

“What are we all talking about?” Turukáno asked, having finally reached them. Findekáno could see both his siblings’ baskets piled high with roots and tubers and the pale bitter bulbs that had come to be the primary source of spice and flavor in many meals since their feast. 

“Findekáno and I are going flower-gathering tomorrow, for the house,” Itarillë told her father. 

“Oh, you are?” he said, and he almost smiled. Turukáno was withdrawn, and stony, and quiet, and since Elenwë’s death he barely laughed, but now and again he came close, and it was always because of his daughter. “And what about your embroidery lessons?”

Itarillë’s face fell. “If we don’t go tomorrow, Artanís says there won’t be any more flowers!”

“And what does Artanís know of the weather on these strange shores?” 

“More than you’d think,” Írissë interjected. “She predicted that storm last week, and she even knew where the trees that were felled by lightning had fallen.”

All four  _ eldar  _ fell silent, considering the eerie implications of this statement, and then Turukáno shook himself and half-smiled again.

“I was teasing, anyhow,” he said. “There will be plenty of time for embroidery lessons later.”

Itarillë let go of Findekáno to throw herself at her father, who came very near to a true grin when she hugged him. 

“Stay close to your  _ atarháno,  _ all right?” he asked. “We are safe here, but that does not mean there is  _ no  _ danger. Even in Aman you could fall out of a tree and break your neck.”

“As if I would let her climb that high,” Findekáno said, almost sharply. He had not missed the unspoken  _ don’t let my daughter die, or I will never forgive you;  _ he was rather annoyed that his brother felt it necessary to communicate such a thing to him. 

“You can’t be too careful,” Turukáno answered, and when he looked down at his brother they very nearly made eye contact. 

“I know,” he answered, glancing down at the grasses and the sandy soil they sprung out of. “But she’s family, Turvo. I wouldn’t let her fall.”

Another silence fell. Findekáno hadn’t been near Elenwë when she had been lost, and so there was nothing particularly biting that either  _ nér  _ could say to the other; they stood awkwardly apart for a few moments before Írissë spoke up. 

“Supper is ready, I think,” she said, glancing up at the Sun and guessing from her proximity to the trees that it was nearing what would have been considered the seventh golden hour in Aman. “We won’t be joining you - we have to get the fruits of our foraging to the kitchens, and then I at least want a bath. I’m covered in dirt from all this digging.” She held up her hands, which were black at the fingertips, and Itarillë giggled when she made a face. 

“We need a bath as well,” Turukáno said, sounding considerably more lighthearted. 

“I don’t,” Itarillë said, and then laughed harder when her father glanced down at her feet. They were bare, and streaked with dust and the green from the grass, and just as dirty in places as Írissë’s hands. 

“I will see you later, then,” Findekáno said. “I’m going to go have a look at our crops, and then head into the house.”

“We were just by the field,” Turukáno said. “What were you meaning to do? There’s no work being done there now.”

“Mostly I wanted to see what we were growing,” he admitted. “To get a better idea of it, and of what might be done to improve it.”

“The soil isn’t right for  _ polë,  _ so we’re growing  _ mulda  _ instead,” his brother explained.

_ “Mulda?  _ For  _ us,  _ and not as feed?”

“The Sindar say you can eat it, and once it’s grown, we won’t have to trade with them for flour anymore.”

“Is that why the bread is so different?”

“It’s different because the yeasts here are different,” Írissë cut in. “I can speak to that more than either of you - it’s harder, now, to get a starter going. We have three or four people working on that and  _ only  _ that more or less day and night, until we can find out how it is done.”

“I suppose it’s lucky we aren’t  _ níssi,  _ then,” Findekáno said to Turukáno, laughing. “Else we would have to spend all our hours staring at flour and water.”

“The Sindar have  _ polë,  _ though,” Írissë continued, ignoring her brothers’ jests. “Because the flour is like the flour from home. I don’t know what sort of bread  _ mulda  _ will make.”

“We could cook the grains and then eat them, perhaps?” Findekáno asked. “The Sindar have  _ erdi,  _ too, because it’s in our porridge; we know how to cook that.”

“You’re asking that we eat all our meals Telerin-fashion?” Turukáno asked. “That’s a tall order, Finno.”

“Until we find a place that  _ polë  _ can grow, what choice do we have?”

“Are we going to stand here all evening, or may I go take my bath?” Írissë asked. 

“Right,” Turukáno said. “We’ll see you later, then? Or are you going to vanish into the sanctity of Maitimo’s chamber?”

Findekáno rolled his eyes, careful to avoid looking too closely at his brother. “I’ll be around,” he said. “If he doesn’t need me.”

“Hm,” the other  _ nér  _ replied, but said nothing else, and his eyes were bright with curiosity and concern as he and his daughter began the trek toward the bathhouse.

* * *

When Findekáno sat down at the dinner table, he was not alone. His father was there, as always, blocked from view on three sides by stacks of thin, curling bark-paper that held the business of their government in their depths; what was surprising was the presence of his Arafinwëan cousins.

He had seen very little of that side of his family since the feast; they kept more or less to themselves, and had little to do with those members of his household that he saw most often. While he and his family had focused on building, and farming, his cousins had focused exclusively on cultivating good relationships with the Sindar. It was thanks to them that trade had occurred at all, and so everyone owed them a great debt, and yet despite this show of friendship they were still an impenetrable inner circle of five. Privately, he wondered if their standoffish nature had anything to do with the fact that they had been on the opposite side at Alqualondë, but he could not truthfully say that they hadn’t always been aloof and over-burdened with gravitas. Now, though, Artanís sat at the end of the table to his right, with Findaráto and Artaresto to  _ her _ right, and Aikanáro and Angaráto opposite them. The meal was hearty - venison and tubers and roots and bulbs all cut up and roasted in broth, served with bread made from Sindarin flour - and everyone seemed to be in high spirits. 

“How are you, cousin?” Angaráto asked him, once their plates were more or less empty. “I have scarcely spoken to you since your grand flight out of the North.”

“Hah,” Findekáno said, smiling softly. “I am well enough. Better still now that I am no longer encumbered by my crutch.”

“So you finally heeded the healers’ instructions long enough to recover,” Artanís said, an enigmatic smile of her own playing over her lips. “Good.” 

Findekáno shrugged, trying to dismiss how eerie she made him feel. His youngest cousin - younger even than Pityo, who had been the baby of the family before her - was a strange  _ nís,  _ taking after her father in the extreme, and she knew more than she said aloud. He was not sure why she had bothered to come to these shores at all, when she might have made a bid for the throne of the Noldor in Tirion, but he supposed she must have had her reasons. 

“Now that you have your legs again,” Aikanáro said, “what do you mean to do? Go back to hunting, as you did before?”

“I don’t think so, actually,” he replied, and took a drink of water from his cup. “It is time I started taking my responsibilities as Crown Prince seriously, I think. There are many things that our people need, or could stand to have more of. I want to have a hand in the labors that change that.”

“If you are serious about such things,  _ yonya,  _ I have a series of agricultural proposals that could use your attention,” Nolofinwë said from behind his barricade. 

“At the moment, I’m trying to see how I could help Isilórë with the forge,” Findekáno told him, “but as soon as I’ve either found a solution to their most pressing problem or given up, I’m planning on devoting myself to the question of staple crops.”

“What’s the trouble with the forge?” Findaráto asked in between mouthfuls of food. “I haven’t heard anything about that.”

“You’ve been busy helping to turn the trees to lumber,” Angaráto informed him. “The forge is done, but there’s nothing to go  _ in _ it. That is the trouble.”

“Yes, precisely,” Findekáno said. “We are set to make tools, and weapons, and nails, but we have no anvil, and no metal to work with.”

“That  _ is _ a problem,” Findaráto said. “How do you mean to fix it?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Isilórë discussed trying to trade for it, but he didn’t think it was possible.”

“If we get an anvil at all, it will be through trade,” Nolofinwë said. “I won’t have my people digging for iron ore that might not exist, not when we have no guarantee that such an action will not be seen as impossibly rude. Do the Sindar use anvils?”

“I don’t know,” Aikanáro said, “and even if they  _ did,  _ I doubt they would trade something so valuable for what we have to offer them.”

“That is what Isilórë said,” Findekáno sighed. “I wish we were in a better position to trade with. I am grateful for their generosity, but I dislike living solely on charity.”

“We  _ are _ on their land,” Artanís said, setting her fork down on her empty plate. “Charity is all we can hope for, until we can ask Thingol for leave to properly settle in this place.”

“Exactly,” Nolofinwë agreed. “That is why I have been so careful in our growth here. Nothing has been done that cannot be undone, and nothing has been altered that we did not need to alter for our survival.”

“I cannot imagine Thingol cares very much, considering that there is an entire city across the lake,” Findaráto cut in. “There have been no Sindarin armies marching on the Fëanárian stockade, or destroying their mine, or flooding their quarry.”

“The Fëanárian host behaves as if they are entitled to all this country, though,” Angaráto said. “We are  _ not _ entitled to it - we are guests.”

“But we must  _ live,”  _ Findekáno said, agreeing with Findaráto. “If we could seek out metal of our own - just enough to build the anvil, even - !”

“And ruin what goodwill we have with our hosts?” Nolofinwë asked. “No.” He looked sharply at his eldest son; Findekáno turned his eyes down and hoped it seemed respectful. “We trade for the anvil, or we do not have it.”

“We could always steal one,” Aikanáro said, and the table erupted into fierce discussion.

“No!”

“Yes!”

“They  _ did  _ steal everything from  _ us,  _ it’s only fair.”

“They will certainly kill whoever tries it - can you imagine smuggling a whole anvil past their guards? And from  _ that _ House?”

“We will be stealing nothing at all,” Nolofinwë answered, firm and unyielding. All fell silent, and everyone who had spoken seemed to be at least a little ashamed of the outbursts.

“I am not averse to  _ negotiating  _ for an anvil, or for the tools we would need for a well-stocked forge,” he continued, and he turned his sharp eyes on the Arafinwëans. “But we will not be  _ stealing _ it, not from them, not when it would only cause more bloodshed in the end.”

“You’re right,” Aikanáro said. “Of course you’re right.” But Findekáno could tell that he was unsatisfied; a bright fire was sparking in his pale eyes.

“I have contacts deeper in the forest,” Artaresto said, and Findekáno realized for the first time that Artaresto had not spoken at all since he had taken his place at the table. All eyes turned to him, even Nolofinwë. “They are Sindar, but they are not the hunters we usually trade with. They live in the forest, near what I suppose  _ must  _ be a hidden city of some sort. They trade with all sorts of  _ eldar,  _ and are willing to share much of that bounty in return for learning our tongue and the tongue of the Teleri. I have not spoken to them in some time, but when my father and I next meet with the hunters, I will give them a message to carry back, and I will see what I can find for us.” He smiled, faintly but eagerly, as if seeing for the first time how important he had become. “I think I can manage an anvil.”

“You are certainly welcome to try,” Nolofinwë said approvingly.

“I will not be able to join you tomorrow,” Angaráto told his son from across the table. “I have pledged myself to helping catch fish.”

“That’s all right,” Artaresto said. “I think I can manage.”

“Do you need anyone to go with you?” Aikanáro asked. 

“You certainly can’t,” Artanís informed him, before her  _ hánoyon  _ could answer. “You and I have to work on covering the  _ mulda _ before the storm breaks.”

“And I’ve told Itarillë that I’ll go flower-gathering with her,” Findekáno said. 

“You’re finally leaving the house for longer than a few hours?” Findaráto cried in mock surprise. “Good! I am astonished, I thought you would never do so again.”

“I am doing it under duress,” Findekáno told the table. “I am already nervous about Maitimo, and what leaving him might mean.”

“The healers did a fine job keeping him alive when he first arrived,” Findaráto said. “I think that he can spare you for a day now that he can sit up in bed, or so I am told - I have not seen my cousin since that night.” He paused, and nodded. “If it would make you feel better, Finno, I will keep him company in your absence.”

Fear and shock and concern blended in Findekáno’s gut until he thought he would freeze. 

“You… you would?” he asked, and pretended that he had choked on his water.

“Of course,” Findaráto said. “He’s family. And even if he  _ did  _ strand us, he has certainly paid for it.”

“He didn’t,” Findekáno replied quietly, setting his cup down and swallowing hard.

“Didn’t what?” Findaráto asked.

“Didn’t strand us. He tried to stop it. The first thing he did was apologize to me for failing.”

“Oh,” Artanís said, and her surprise seemed to echo back and forth between her siblings. “I… I suppose I’ve misjudged him, then.”

“So have we all,” Angaráto said. “And we ought to apologize.”

Findekáno wondered if they believed him, if their quiet discomfiture and wide eyes meant that they suspected he was a liar, and then he wondered if this was how  _ every  _ shock went in the house of their father. His  _ atarháno  _ was a rather reserved  _ nér  _ to begin with, and he had only grown more mellow after moving to Alqualondë.  _ I have no reason to think they do  _ not  _ believe me,  _ he told himself, trying to stop his pounding heart.  _ No reason at all. And… and I suppose I must model my father’s call for openness and trust, if I am to take my place and lead my people.  _

_ Russo, I hope you are not furious with me. _

“I’m sure he would love your company,” he said, glancing up at his cousins. “Really. He has been very lonely, though he hasn’t said as much aloud.”

“It’s settled, then,” Findaráto told him brightly. “You can go have your fun with Itarillë, and we will look after Maitimo.”

“That sounds just fine,” Findekáno said, hoping that his smile didn’t seem  _ too  _ forced. “I am looking forward to a day in the Sun, anyway.”

He wasn’t, but he supposed it couldn’t be helped; he sighed again and focused on finishing his dinner.

_ Please, whichever Vala has decided that they like me enough to help me so far, don’t let this turn into yet more unnecessary dramatics. One day. That’s all I’m asking. One day. _

_ Nothing too ridiculous can happen, can it? _


	14. It Wasn't Out Of Charity

It was very early the next day when Findekáno got up, dragging himself away from Russandol’s side. He’d fallen asleep in his husband’s room again, and he could only hope that his actions were either ignored or dismissed as relief for a friend; regardless, he made the trip down the hall to his own room as quietly as possible. Aicatillë saw him go, nodding at him; the guard’s expression was friendly but alert. _ Good, _ he thought. _ I feel less terrible about leaving him alone with Aicatillë there to look after him. _

Súlwë was waiting for him when he opened the door to his room, laying out a short-sleeved white tunic with brightly colored embroidery at the sleeves and hem.

“I guessed you’d be getting an early start,” he said, “and I managed to finish this last night, so I wanted to give you the chance to wear it if you wanted.”

“You made me a tunic?” Findekáno asked, trying and failing to hide his shock. He shut the door behind him and crossed the room to the bed, picking up the garment. It was truly _ white, _not merely the pale creamy grey of raw linen fabric, and he wondered how the weavers had managed it. 

“Not exactly,” Súlwë replied, moving back to rummage through his closet. “There is - well, something of a market for secondhand clothes that aren’t needed. It’s been long enough that people who lost loved ones on the Ice are starting to willingly give up those personal effects that they don’t wish to keep as mementos.”

“Oh,” Findekáno answered, and when he looked back at the stark fabric he felt a knot of guilt and worry in the pit of his stomach. _ Whoever this belonged to is gone, _ he realized, _ and it is more or less my fault that they perished. _

“I wondered if it was too morbid,” his valet continued, seemingly oblivious to the vacant expression that had settled over his face, “but you have trousers that belonged to your brother, and so - _ haryon-nînya, _are you all right?” 

Findekáno barely heard him. He was staring at the tunic that he held in his hands, wondering who it had belonged to, wondering how they had died. _ Was it quick? _ he asked himself, knowing he would get no answer and wishing for it all the same. His thoughts turned to darkness and bitter cold and freezing water, to the anguished forms of those poor _ eldar _ who had frozen in place as they walked, to the bodies they had left to be claimed by the snow.

“Thankfully, this didn’t belong to someone we lost,” Súlwë said, right next to his ear. He flinched, startled out of his thoughts, and blinked back hot tears that had seemingly come from nowhere, and looked down at the tunic again.

“Then who - ?” he asked.

“There was a _ nér _ who wanted a black silk shirt for his wife,” his valet explained. “He had nothing to trade that did not come from his own wardrobe, and he said he was growing bored with this tunic. It was more or less your size, and so last night I sat with it and altered it to fit you, and fixed the embroidery to hide the changes.”

“Oh,” Findekáno said, shivering. “Oh - I thought…”

“You do have a few pieces that belonged to some who died,” Súlwë informed him, “but not this one, and these leggings were always yours.” He paused, and Findekáno hesitated before turning to look at him.

“What is it?” he finally asked, when it became evident that his valet did not intend to simply let him stew in his misery.

“You know you don’t have to blame yourself,” the other _ nér _said. “Really. You don’t.” 

“Of course I do,” Findekáno said dismissively.

“No,” Súlwë said, more insistently. He raised a hand and set it on his prince’s arm. “You don’t.”

Findekáno looked sharply at the other _ nér. _ “You don’t know,” he said, nearly angry. “I doomed us. I _ damned _ us. I made Kinslayers of the whole of my people.”

“You went into battle because you thought your friend was going to be murdered,” his valet said, “and it was dark, and no one really knew what was going on.”

“I led us - !”

“We _ chose to follow you, haryon-nînya,” _Súlwë interrupted him, slowly and firmly.

Findekáno flinched again, choking on the words in his throat. “I - _ what?” _

“You’re the son of our King, but you aren’t King yet,” the other _ nér _ said. “And even if you _ were _King, it is our right as your subjects to say your decisions aren’t sound, and refuse to obey your will. Why do you think those of us in this camp are not across the lake?”

“I - !”

“You aren’t single-handedly responsible for the Doom of the Noldor. We all followed where you led - we _ elected _to follow where you led, and listen to your orders, and do what you did. We aren’t less culpable simply because we aren’t royalty.”

Findekáno tried to speak, failed, and found himself simply taking the deepest breath of his life. His valet laughed softly. 

“You really think you can force a few hundred _ eldar _ to bend to your every whim?” he asked. “No. Let us bear the responsibility for our own actions.”

“But you,” Findekáno managed at last, “you were all trapped by _ my _choices!”

“That might be true in the abstract,” Súlwë said, “but if I’d known you believed something so ridiculous, I would have set you straight in the first conversation we had. It is only fools like Aryaráto who hold any real _ resentment _ towards you, or your family - the rest of us made our peace with our actions long ago.”

Findekáno let out the last of the breath he’d taken in a long, forceful sigh. “I’m not sure I believe you,” he said, “but at least I’m more likely to think you’re all mad than think you’re all lying to me.”

“I can live with you being convinced I am mad,” Súlwë told him. “So long as I can remain in your service.”

“Only an _ elda _ who is mad would _ want _ to be in my service,” Findekáno countered, almost smiling in spite of his tears. “So that is no great challenge on my part.”

“Do you want the tunic?” his valet asked, deftly changing the subject. “If not, I think I can give it to someone else.”

“No, I’ll take it,” he said. “And those leggings you laid out, too. What do I have by way of footwear?”

“You’ve got your boots,” Súlwë said, “though they could use a good polish. I got you a pair of those open shoes in the Telerin style, too - I had to guess at your size, but I think I’m close enough.”

“You mean the ones with the leather soles that tie in place around your feet and ankles?” Findekáno asked, recalling the one time he had visited Alqualondë and been able to wear them. 

“Yes.”

“Hm,” he said, picturing the strangely crafted things in his head. The ones he had worn before had been fastened onto his feet by tying lengths of cloth into intricate knots, and Turukáno’s had even threaded through his toes. “My boots both _ do _need polished, and it’s quite warm today. I suppose I’ll try them, though if I look ridiculous, I shall blame you.” He was smiling earnestly now, looking over his shoulder at Súlwë, who was holding a pair of leather shapes with cloth trailing off of them.

“I doubt you will look ridiculous,” his valet said. “But go on, get dressed. Do you want breakfast?”

“I’ll take some sweetbread with me when I go,” he answered. “Hopefully Itarillë won’t be too cross with me for waking her so early.”

“She’s been able to talk of nothing but going flower-gathering with her favorite _ atarháno,” _Súlwë informed him as he stripped out of his old clothes. “I doubt she’ll be upset at all.” He turned to go back to the closet, stopped by Findekáno’s call.

“Súlwë?”

“Yes, _ haryon-nînya?” _

“Thank you. I - I mean it. Really.”

“Of course. Now, I should go - breakfast is getting started, and I need to go find out from Endanáro if it’s to be broth again for _ condo _Maitimo.”

“Look after him, will you?” Findekáno asked, sliding the white tunic over his head. It fit well, and he could not in truth tell that it hadn’t first been made for him. He picked up the black leggings that had been beside it and pulled them up over both feet. “Findaráto said he would at least visit him, but - well, he hasn’t _ seen _ Findaráto yet, and he has seen _ you.” _

Súlwë was silent, and inscrutable; Findekáno thought he looked as if he were wrestling with accepting some great honor. But he nodded, and drew his arm up across his chest in a half-bow.

“I’ll make sure he’s well taken care of,” he said, rising back up and turning sharply on his heel to leave the room. It wasn’t until Findekáno was quite alone again that he realized he’d looked his valet directly in the eye.

* * *

Itarillë was awake when her _ atarháno _ came to the room she shared with her father; she had gotten up all on her own at the first sign of dawn and had quickly dressed in a gown of pale linen. It was undyed, and rough, clearly one of the earliest attempts at tailoring that the Noldor on this side of the lake had made, but it had a circle of rustic rosettes about its collar, and it was not something that her father complained about her wearing while she got into the dirt, and so it was the ideal choice for a day of outdoor adventures. As always, she eschewed shoes, and it didn’t take long to brush out her hair until it fell about her shoulders like a somewhat frizzy golden cloud. When Findekáno opened the door, holding a candle in one hand, she smiled at him, and crossed the room to say goodbye to her father. Unlike the others of their family, they slept in a very small space - it could almost be called _ cramped _\- but there was room enough for what few belongings they still had.

Turukáno awoke as soon as she put her hand in his, sitting upright in one motion; his eyes were only distant for a moment before they focused on the warm light and on the shadowed face of his brother. He had elbowed Itarillë behind him as if to shield her from whatever was at the door.

“It’s all right,” Findekáno said quietly. “Itarillë and I are going out to gather flowers. We spoke about it yesterday, remember?”

“Oh,” Turukáno said, and rather guiltily tried to hide the fact that his free hand had gone to the knife that never left his hip. “Oh.” 

He sighed and lay back down, shutting his eyes again.

“Be safe,” he murmured, already drifting back to sleep. Itarillë squeezed his hand, and kissed his cheek, and made her way out of their room. 

“I have sweetbread for breakfast,” Findekáno said, shutting the door again and holding the latch as it slid into place. “And I think we could probably get skins of tea to take with us, if we asked nicely. 

“Oh, good!” the _ seldë _replied, trying and failing to hide how excited she was. Findekáno realized all at once how horribly difficult her days must be - she was too young to truly contribute to her family’s building and governing, and too old to be treated entirely as an infant and given the freedom to do more or less whatever she pleased and monopolize as much attention as she desired, and as she was the only child to survive the Ice, she could not even slip away from her father to spend her days with playmates and friends.

_ Not that Turvo would let her go far, _ he thought, and he hoped she could not see the ugly expression he made at the thought of how closely his brother guarded her. His brother watched her like a hawk, since her mother’s death, and dismissed all the questions and suggestions of his family with sullen glares and flippant remarks. It was a miracle, truly, that he was allowed to go beyond the walls of the house with Itarillë in tow, but he was fairly certain that if Turvo had objected, their father would have intervened.

_ Well. I don’t have to think about that, _ he decided, shaking his head. _ I’ve been permitted to accompany the prisoner on an outing, and I will make it a good one, in case we encounter a cloud or a determined _ pí _ and as a result she is kept in the house for the rest of time. _

“Are you all right?” Itarillë asked, and he smiled and offered his arm, as if she were a proper _ wendë _on her way to a ball in Tirion. 

“I’m fine,” he told her. “I am thinking of the _ campilossë _tea that they have started to keep in the cold-cellar, and of how much I will enjoy sharing it with you while we set out for the meadows south of our little camp.”

_ “Campilossë?” _Itarillë cried, and then realized how loud she was being and forced herself to be quieter. “I didn’t know there was any here!”

“Neither did I,” Findekáno said, and his smile grew as they reached the doors into the house proper. “But I think we might be able to get a skin or two of it, for our long journey.” 

He supposed, judging by the look on his _ hánoanel’s _ face, that she thought him to be the most wonderful _ nér _who ever lived.

* * *

When Maitimo woke up properly, the Sun was streaming in through his window, and for once, most of his _ hröa _did not ache. He was clear-headed, and breathing easily, and even the pain in his hip was lessened. He did not quite hope that it would be a good day - hope was a faint and distant thing, anymore - but he felt significantly better about spending it alone than he had the previous night.

Súlwë brought him tea, and breakfast, which was yet more broth; he had advanced from a thin drink that was little better than water to a true soup stock, rich with fat and spices and herbs that were certainly all meant to have some medicinal purpose. 

“Endanáro says that after a few more days of this, you’ll be able to try something more, if you want,” the valet said when he had swallowed the last dregs of the stuff.

“More?” Maitimo asked, perplexed. He looked down at the empty mug, and then back up at the other _ nér, _blinking in confusion. “What - ?”

“More food than just broth, I mean,” Súlwë said. “Maybe some bread, broken up and soaking in it, or meat and tubers. You’d need a spoon, but you _ could _ have it. We’ve enough to spare.”

“Oh,” Maitimo answered, shivering; his eyes were sharp with unexpected tears, and he wasn’t quite sure why. _ I don’t remember what bread tastes like, _he thought, and wondered if that was supposed to be upsetting. 

“Only if you want,” the valet repeated, voice soft and careful. Maitimo looked up at him more quickly than he meant, and he stepped back from the bed almost instantly as if to punctuate an apology that was only half-articulated.

“The last meat I had isn’t fit to be remembered,” Maitimo answered, and he shook off the rising revulsion that always accompanied his thoughts when they verged on the black pit of memory that was Angamando. “I… yes. I think I would like to try something more.”

When Súlwë began to say something else, he cut off the question by draining his other mug of tea in one long swallow. _ Finno, when I agreed to let you go, I did not think that it would mean hours with these people! _

_ Family, _ he corrected himself, and made a face. _ These people are your _ family, _ you fool. Now, if only they felt that way. _

He finished his breakfast in silence, and handed both mugs back to Súlwë to be taken away. The valet bowed slightly, and murmured a goodbye, and left; Maitimo found himself alone again very promptly. 

_ I wonder when - or _ if - _ anyone will come to see me, _ he mused. There was a book lying to his left, on the side of the bed, and he picked it up absently. The covers and _ cumn _a pages had been taken off from it, very neatly. Closer examination told him that they had been cut, and trimmed close to the binding, leaving the spine intact but removing everything save the text. Findekáno had been reading it prior to falling asleep on him, and he hadn’t been able to see how it had been mutilated.

“Someone wanted very badly to change you,” he said aloud to the book, absorbed in his study of the carefully stripped pages. Even the threads holding the spine together had been deftly avoided. 

“Or,” a second voice said, and Maitimo flinched violently and dropped the book, “someone wanted very badly not to freeze.”

Panic sparked in his chest, turning to fear and then to bone-deep terror. He could not flee from the bed, and so he winced, his whole body curving in on itself in preparation for a beating or a scolding. His right arm raised up to shield his head, and he closed his eyes and waited.

Nothing. His heart was pounding like a drum in his ears, his blood had turned to fire and ice, and he was at once dizzy and sharply, intensely aware of the whole world. 

_ Please, _ he thought, or prayed, or hoped; he could not say which. Beneath the mindless fear, he cursed himself for picking up the book - _ I should have waited, I should have asked permission, I - _

_ \- I am not in Angamando anymore. _

This thought, more than any of the others, grounded him. His mind turned to think back on the past days, on warmth and tender care and the all-encompassing brightness that was Findekáno.

_ He could never imitate our bond, _ Maitimo thought, clinging to that certainty. _ He could try, and fail, and he forged ties of his own, but _ that? _ That was _ mine, _ and not his, and so - _

Carefully, painstakingly, he lowered his arm and looked over at the source of the sound. His _ atarháno, _Nolofinwë, stood in the door, carrying a book under his own arm.

_ Oh, _ Maitimo realized, and shuddered, and felt himself collapse back against the bed. His head struck the headboard with a hard _ thunk; _he barely felt it. Everything in him was pins and needles and relief.

“Oh,” he said again, aloud this time. The word was a ragged, drawn-out sigh. Something in him wondered if he ought to be embarrassed, but he found he was too tired for anything at all. He slid down until he was more or less flat on his back, staring at the ceiling; his eyes filled with tears until his vision blurred. _ Finno, where _ are _ you?! _he thought, forgetting that his husband would be gone until that evening. His breath was shallow and hoarse.

Nolofinwë shut the door, and Maitimo could hear the latch fall into place from under the frantic pounding of his heart. 

“I came to see you,” he said; his _ hánoyon _ found himself laughing softly at that. _ Whatever you were looking for, you found a spectacle, _he thought wildly. He was still shaking, and the gentle laugh had grown keening and hysterical in a handful of heartbeats. 

_ No, _ Maitimo answered himself, _ no. _ His left hand turned into a fist that clawed at the bedsheets, and he opened his mouth wider and made himself take a deeper breath, and then another, and then another, over and over until the hammering in his chest had slowed. His eyes screwed themselves shut, and he wrapped what little of his marriage-bond he could sense around his _ fëa, _letting it ground him and anchor him in the here-and-now. His breathing returned to normal, his shoulders relaxed, his legs settled against the mattress and the tension drained out of hips and shoulders. When he opened his eyes, the tears were gone; he was calm again. The fear was still there, knife-sharp and immense, but he could try and ignore it.

“I should leave,” Nolofinwë said. 

“No,” Maitimo answered, for a third time; he saw his uncle flinch out of the corner of his eye. “No, please, I - I have wanted to see you, for some time.” The words were distant, and he felt as if he was grasping at falling leaves as he spoke. His strength - such as it was - had deserted him in his terror, and he was left utterly spent and hoping that he would not fall asleep mid-sentence. 

“Me?” the other _ nér _asked. “Why me?” 

“Because - because I wanted - wanted to thank you,” Maitimo said, and cursed himself for his continued weakness.

“You don’t - ”

“Yes,” he interrupted, tired but firm, “I do.” He turned his head to look at Nolofinwë properly, and the room spun for a few breaths before it settled back into place. He fixed his eyes to his _ atarháno _ ’s robes, watching how they met in the center of his chest and joined in a series of delicate clasps, and continued. “You - you have saved me, sheltered me, and asked _ nothing _ of me, nothing at all, except…” The tears were back, and he swallowed them and shoved the emotions that caused them back down into himself. “Except ask that I heal, and grow strong, and be well, and - and you - I - !”

“Nelyafinwë,” the other _ nér _said, and the name struck him like a blow, setting him to shuddering again. Nolofinwë frowned - evidently this was meant to be comforting - and tried again. “You don’t…” He sighed, and shook his head, and sat down on the bed, angling his body so he wasn’t looking over his shoulder. 

“Don’t what?”

“You don’t have to thank me for doing what I would have done no matter what.”

_ What? _

“I would have helped you regardless of anything,” his _ atarháno _said. “You’re family.”

“But - but I - !”

“I know you didn’t burn the ships and strand us.”

“How - ?”

“I _ do _ talk to my son now and again, you know.”

Maitimo fell silent at that, wincing again. _ What if he told? _ crept up from his gut like a frightful seedling finally breaking ground, and suddenly everything was ice. _ He promised, he _ promised _ he wouldn’t! _His eyes were shut again, and his heart was pounding once more. He was very near to truly weeping. 

Suddenly, there was something unexpected - a solid weight, warm, unyielding but somehow comforting, settling on him. He opened his eyes to see Nolofinwë stretched back over the bed, one hand reaching out and resting on his upper arm. It was an awkward position, and he had been forced to abandon his book so it didn’t dig into his side; it was undignified and uncomfortable and very different from anything that he could remember experiencing in years uncounted. 

“You’re safe here,” his _ atarháno _said to him, and with that, Maitimo’s resolve broke, and he curled up onto his side and sobbed, letting the last of his strength bleed out into his tears.

* * *

“It’s not safe to meet during the day, you know.”

Artaresto sighed. It was a plaintive, almost whining sort of gesture - _ yes, _ he wanted to say, _ I know, I am not _ stupid, _ but this is important! _Instead, he turned to face Tyelperinquar with an expression that he tried very hard to keep civil. 

“I do know that,” he said, “but I don’t know when else I can slip away. Ever since those _ néri _ tried to kill - !” He froze, eyes wide. He’d very nearly done what the _ Alaran _ had forbidden, and let slip the news of Maitimo’s survival without permission. _ Can I trust him? _ he thought, watching Tyelperinquar’s earnest face. _ He isn’t stupid, who’s to say he won’t guess the truth anyway? _

_ Well, if he guesses it, let him guess it; I won’t be the one to break a direct decree. _

“Ever since some _ néri _ got angry with what _ Ar - _Nolofinwë said - he ordered us to be peaceful, and forget any enmity we held towards your side - well, they tried to murder one of my cousins in the night - !”

_ “What?” _

“Yes, I know, it’s awful, but ever since then, there have been guards patrolling the camp at night, and keeping watch during the day. I can get away all right when the Sun is up - I can pretend to be meeting with my contacts in the Sindar - but at night? No.”

“Are you still pretending to be meeting with the Þindar?”

“Yes, I haven’t really got another choice as of now.”

“Didn’t you just say that Nolofinwë wants peace between us?”

“Didn’t I just tell you someone nearly got murdered over it?”

“Right,” Tyelperinquar said, and made a face. “I mean, I’m pretending the same thing, but _ I’m _doing it because if I tell anyone what I’ve been doing, I think my father will disown me, and that would be getting off easy.”

_ That’s the worst sort of stupidity, _Artaresto thought, but aloud he said “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” his cousin answered. “At this point I’m rather used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

There was a long, almost awkward pause, and then Tyelperinquar shrugged. “What was it you wanted, anyway?” 

“This is a tall order,” Artaresto said, and even as he spoke he wondered if he had entirely lost his senses. _ What am I thinking, asking one of _ them _ for an _ anvil?! _ But there’s nothing for it, I’ve done all this already, it’s not as if I can just lie and say that nothing is wrong! _

“Well?” Tyelperinquar asked, and he realized he’d been staring openmouthed for at least a minute.

“I - we need an anvil,” he said. 

His cousin sighed, frustration leaving him like lungfuls of air all exhaled at once. He reached one hand up and sank his head into it. 

“Of course you do,” he muttered. “Of course.”

“We can’t - !”

“I know what you can’t do without an anvil,” Tyelperinquar said, irritability creeping back into his voice. “I only - you - how am I supposed to get you one of those?!”

“If I could help at all, then maybe - !”

“You do know how _ heavy _an anvil is, don’t you?” 

“Yes, I do, I have seen one of them before,” Artaresto answered, and he failed to keep the venom from his voice. _ Ai, damn it all, _ he thought. _ We have tried so hard not to bicker, and now this. _

“Do you expect me to just make the _ ércala _thing appear out of thin air?”

“I’ll do whatever you need me to, but without it, we’re - we can’t plow, we’re digging out fields by hand to plant, we had to trade for all of our metal with the Sindar…” His voice faltered, whatever he was thinking of saying dying in his throat, and he sighed again. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured at last. “Really. I - I know it’s too much.” He drew himself up out of the slump he had fallen into, and turned away from his cousin. If he was quick, he could get back without being missed. He hadn’t bothered to give an explanation to any of the guards in the camp; he hadn’t _ seen _any of them.

“Why did anyone attack your family?” Tyelperinquar asked, stopping him in his tracks before he could take more than three steps towards the woods. 

_ Muk, _ Artaresto swore, his eyes widening. _ No, it’s all right, he doesn’t know, I can handle this. _ He took a moment to collect himself, and glanced back at the other _ nér _while trying to look confused rather than guilty.

“What do you mean?” he asked. His voice was steady. He was a decent actor, and had always been good at keeping his cool, like everyone in his family. It was a skill inherited from his grandfather, and he hoped it would be of use now.

“I mean,” Tyelperinquar said, frowning, “that your family doesn’t really have anything to _ do _with all this.”

“I said they attacked my cousins,” Artaresto corrected, hoping the tremble he felt in his limbs was invisible. _ Ai, Valar, if he guesses it… _

“But that makes even less sense,” the dark-haired _ elda _ informed him. “Nolofinwë and his family were popular in Tirion, and even in all of Valannor. Evidently they’re _ still _ popular, otherwise they’d have been ousted from their positions of leadership. So why would anyone attack them? At least, anyone who wasn’t driven mad by something like cold or starvation or grief. If they were going to be attacked, it would make far _ more _sense for it to have happened on the Ice.”

“Not everyone is quite so calculating in their madnesses, I suppose. And ordering peace wasn’t a popular move.”

“If it’s so unpopular, why not push for something else? My _ alatarháno _ has never been one for pushing ahead and ignoring the will of his people, that’s how he ended up in this succession crisis in the first place. If there _ hadn’t _ been a demand from the populace for him to take the throne, he never _ would _have.”

Artaresto found his mouth had gone very dry. It was easy, when he was so often friendly and charming, to forget how very _ smart _Tyelperinquar was.

“I couldn’t tell you,” he said, every word more brittle than its predecessor.

“Hm,” his cousin answered, looking at him sharply. For a long moment he was silent, and then he nodded, something in his face shifting from skepticism to resolve. 

“I’ll get you your anvil,” he said. “It will take me some time to make it, but you’ll have it. I promise.”

“I - thank you,” Artaresto answered, trying to hide his surprise and unease. “Really, truly, I…”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Tyelperinquar informed him. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Oh,” Artaresto replied, feeling foolish. “Right.”

“One more thing - did Findekáno go anywhere recently?”

“You expect me to keep track of everything my whole family does?”

“No, but I _ do _expect you to keep track of rumors.”

That made Artaresto’s heart thud in his chest. “Rumors?”

“That night, several weeks ago - the last time I saw you - some of our sentries said they saw something like a winged cloud come out of the North, and land in your encampment. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“I wouldn’t,” Artaresto lied, “no.” _ Ai, _ ercanyë, ercamando, _ he knows… _

“Hm,” his cousin said again, and then straightened up, and suddenly he was all smiles and flawless charm. “Well, I’m glad you told me what you needed.”

_ What? _

“I will let you know when your anvil is done - like I said, it will take some time, but we’re going to be expanding our forges soon and I ought to be able to request enough extra ore to make it. It won’t be a _ proper _ anvil, maybe the weight of a large sheep, but you’ll be able to make a blade on it.”

“How - how heavy is a proper anvil?” Artaresto asked, still reeling from the sudden shift in the other _ nér’s _demeanor.

“Oh, at least twice that,” Tyelperinquar said. He was almost chipper. “But. I ought to get back, and you ought to get back, and I’ll send word to you by the usual sign when it’s finished.”

“Right,” Artaresto said, seizing the first sign of normalcy that he could. _ Maybe I’m wrong, _ he thought, but he couldn’t shake the sight of the glint in his cousin’s eye. _ Maybe he doesn’t know. _

“This is our secret,” Tyelperinquar continued, and he glanced over to see an especially warm expression and bright eyes looking back at him. “Don’t worry. It will work out.”

_ I hope so, _ he thought, nodding in farewell. _ I hope so. _


	15. Side By Side With A Friend

“Do you need anything?”

The voice was anchoring, firm, unmoving, _ calm. _ Maitimo shuddered, taking a breath and feeling every rib in his chest groan in protest as it shifted. He did not know how long he had wept for, and more to the point, it had made him feel worse rather than better. _I’m safe, _ he tried to tell himself, and failed, and the fear that had been building vanished in a fog of frightened determination. _ I’m safe, this is safe - _

_ I have no way of _ knowing _ that, do I? _

The question went unanswered as what was left of his terror folded itself down into some deep place within him, and vigilance took its place. He could feel the instant the last of his uncertainty had faded - the whole of his attention was on his senses, on what he could feel, and hear, and smell. _ Linen, _ he thought, tensing the fingers of his left hand against the bedclothes. _ Lavender, from the washing. Straw and feathers. Some sort of flowers on the air, and the breeze off the lake. And Nolofinwë at the end of the bed - his breathing, and the way the bed creaks under him when he moves. No glass in the window - I could roll onto my feet and dive out of it if I had to. He’s between me and the door. The bandages will give if I move quickly enough. _

_ That’s my plan, then. _

“Nelyafinwë?” his _ atarháno _ asked, and instantly he was focused on that voice. He opened his eyes; he was lying on his right side, with his left arm draped over his chest, and when he shifted the blankets he could see the other _ nér _sitting up again and looking at him. Somehow he had twisted away from the hand on his shoulder. “Maitimo?”

Both names left his mouth tasting of ash and rot, but that could not be helped.

“What?” he asked.

“I asked if you needed anything.”

“I - no,” he answered, suddenly embarrassed. There was a blush creeping down to his neck and shoulders. “No, thank you, I’m alright.”

Nolofinwë gave him an unconvinced look; he winced. 

“Nearly alright,” he amended, hesitant, almost asking the other _ nér _ if it was true. This only made his _ atarháno’s _eyebrow raise even higher.

“I don’t know how I am,” Maitimo admitted with a groan, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling again. “So don’t ask me.”

“I think you’re frightened,” Nolofinwë replied calmly, looking at him, “and uncertain, and worried, and _ bored.” _

“I’m not - !”

“You’ve been in the same room for several weeks. How can you not be bored?”

_ When you spend most days only half-sure that you’re not seeing things, nothing is ever boring, _ Maitimo shot back silently, hoping that his _ atarháno _couldn’t hear him.

“What I want is to be left alone,” he answered aloud. “Truly. Really. I - I mean it.” _ I want to be alone, and I want Findekáno beside me, and that is all. _ This was a contradiction, and he knew it, and yet both things at once were true. 

“Mm,” Nolofinwë said, noncommittal and yet uncannily aware. “I will leave you be, then. Aicatillë is on guard outside; if you need anything, then - ”

“Guard?” Maitimo asked sharply, pushing himself upright onto his elbows and testing the muscles in his legs. “I’m guarded?”

“Yes.”

_ So it _ is _ false, then, _ he thought, forcing the ice-cold terror that shot up through his limbs into something resembling resolve. _ All of this, every bit of it, how could I be so foolish, how could I be so _thoughtless - !

“You’re a prince of the royal house, in an encampment with several people who your family badly inconvenienced,” Nolofinwë - or the thing in his shape - said. “I thought it best to keep out anyone who might do you harm.”

“Hah,” Maitimo said. It was a mirthless laugh, sharp and bitter, betraying none of the turmoil within. _ I can’t run with my leg like this. And where would I run _ to? _ This is an illusion, the whole of it, and any step outside this room might be into a pit, or off a precipice, or - _

All at once, everything stopped, save for his breathing. There was warmth in his mind, gentle and soothing and _ real, _silver and blue burning through the misery and the fog and the fragments of thought, and it wound itself about his terror until he could not tell where it ended and he began. 

_ Findekáno, _ he realized, joy and relief mingling and rising to meet the anchor that tethered him to certainty. _ Is - he must be thinking of me? _

There was no answer - his husband was probably too far for _ ósanwë - _but there was a shift in their bond, and something surged through it that felt very much like love.

_ Real, _ Maitimo thought. _ This is real. _

He sagged into the mattress again, shivering, and then remembered that Nolofinwë was there, and blushed even more deeply.

“I - I am very nearly always like this, now,” he said. It was a sad, futile, insufficient explanation, but it was all he could offer.

“And you think I’m upset by that?” his _ atarháno _asked him.

“Oh,” Maitimo said, blinking several times and puzzling over the question. “I don’t know.”

“I’m not,” Nolofinwë said. “At all.”

“You - why?” Distrust still buzzed at the edges of his mind, and this was an unexpected twist in the conversation.

“You’ve been through a miserable, horrible thing, that none of us here can truly understand,” the other _ nér _ explained. “Of course you’re changed by it. _ I _am changed by what has been lost, and what has been suffered. The same is true for you.”

“You make it sound awfully straightforward,” Maitimo murmured, musing over an imperfection in the plaster directly over his head.

“It seems more or less obvious to me.”

_ Well, _ you _ have not been to Angamando, _Maitimo thought, and then wondered why he was annoyed. He was silent for perhaps half a minute, and then Nolofinwë sighed and straightened up.

“If you truly would rather be alone,” he said, “I will leave you to it, but I can’t promise you solitude for the whole day.”

“And why not?” 

“Because,” his _ atarháno _said, “my son made Findaráto promise to look in on you.”

“Findaráto? He’s _ here?” _

“Along with all his siblings, and his _ hánoyon.” _

“Oh,” Maitimo said, almost laughing. “Are all five of them going to look in on me, then?”

“I couldn’t say, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”

_ Damn, _ Maitimo thought, and felt his lips twist up into a self-deprecating half-smile. _ I am not looking forward to this. _

“I promise to behave,” he said, sarcasm edging his words. “Or at least I will _ try.” _

Nolofinwë got up from the bed, his book in his hand again, and crossed the distance to the door. He pushed the latch down, and pulled the door open, and paused, looking back at where Maitimo lay.

“We know you didn’t burn the ships,” he said, and then turned and stepped into the hall as his _ hánoyon _ started up onto his elbows yet again, mouth falling open in shock.

“Wait - !” Maitimo began, but the door closed before he could say more. He was left alone, as he had asked, only not as he had anticipated.

_ They… they _ know?! _ But - I - well, I suppose that explains why I have not been interrogated about it, only - how? Findekáno - did I tell him? Could I have? I don’t - those first days are - _

_ \- how?! _

Maitimo groaned, and curled up onto his side again. _ If I am going to have to put up with my perfect cousins, I might as well sleep first. I will need it to face their insufferable arrogance. _

* * *

For all his worry, Findekáno found he couldn’t help himself. He was having an absolutely lovely day. The Sun was bright, and shining, and there was a warm breeze blowing out of the West and pushing the clouds across the sky, and he and Itarillë had made their way up into the low rolling hills between the eastern edge of their encampment and the forest. There had not been much luck in gathering true wildflowers, but _ ránelet _ and _ campilossë _ and _ hímanehtë _ covered the ground in between the grass, and his _ hánoanel _had braided their small blossoms and stems into crowns for the two of them. Their baskets were full of leaves and roots, to be taken back and dried for tea.

_ Russo would love it out here, _ he thought, turning his mind back toward the camp, and feeling echoes of his husband through their bond. He let himself cling to them, threading himself through them, hoping he was felt in return. _ I will bring him, as soon as I can. It’s almost like home, when it is this bright and gold. And with the hills running down to the lake - _

He stopped himself; he could feel the tears coming, and he didn’t want to cry in front of Itarillë. Each time he blinked he was suddenly back in Valannor, in the Treelight, looking down at the small lake that he and Russandol had discovered on one of their many rides outside the confines of Tirion and its politics. 

_ That was long ago, _ he tried to tell himself, and sighed. _ This is now. And now, I have my _ hánoanel _ with me, and not my husband, and I must be happy for her. _

“Findekáno!” Itarillë called from somewhere behind him, as if in answer to his thoughts. He smiled in spite of his grief and turned to see her, crouched on her knees and staring at something in a dip in the earth. When he was standing over her, he could see that it was a small purple flower of a type he’d never seen before.

“That’s new,” he said, bending down to better examine it. “It’s lovely, too.”

“Do you think we could use it?” Itarillë asked him. “For dyes, and other things.”

“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?” he answered. “Are there any more? I don’t want to pick it if we’ll kill the only one.”

“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “I’ll get up and look.”

“Good,” Findekáno said. Itarillë scrambled to her feet and went up onto the hill behind them, and he bent even closer to the dirt to examine the little plant. _ We need dye, _ he thought, _ from _ somewhere, _ even if it’s not from this - it’s worth a try, at least. _

“There’s more!” his _ hánoanel _cried from the other side of the hill, her voice carried away by the wind. “Lots more, going back into the woods!”

“We’ll need a lot to try for dyeing anything!” Findekáno called back. “I’ll leave this one and come help you gather them!” 

He got to his feet, surprised at how easy it was in the unusual Telerin shoes, and went after Itarillë. As he crested the hill, he could see that she was right - the grass was dotted with the same blossoms, and they grew closer and closer until they almost carpeted the ground. His _ hánoanel _was on her knees in their midst, carefully picking each one and placing it in her basket, and he joined her eagerly. Together, they made their way through the grass, and before they knew it, they were in the shadow of the woods.

“There probably won’t be any flowers further in,” he said, remembering the undergrowth that he had come to know so well during his stay under the hawthorn. “And our baskets are full. If you want to gather more, we’ll have to go back and give over what we’ve picked.”

“Let’s go on into the woods,” Itarillë answered earnestly. “Please? If we go back home, Atya will think of a reason to keep me there, and I… I don’t really…” 

Her voice trailed off, and she turned her gaze down at her lap and the pile of purple blossoms gathered up in her skirts. Findekáno knew she was right. Turvo, as soon as he saw she was returned to him, would not let her go again for another fortnight at least. _ And I was just mourning the fact that she didn’t have any friends her own age. It’s not fair to her to demand that she give up an afternoon of freedom just because I’m worried about my husband. _

_ And besides, I’ve been in these woods, and the most dangerous thing in them is my cousin. _

“I like that idea,” he told her, and smiled, feeling his gifted flower crown shift on his head. “It’s not near to sundown yet. I think we can stay out a while longer, if we’re careful not to lose our baskets and we keep watch on the time.”

Itarillë grinned back at him, and he could tell she was trying very hard not to shout for joy. _ When I was her age, and I was done with lessons, my mother turned me out of doors to do as I please, unless I had chores or I needed to watch the others. What sort of a girlhood is she turning out to have? All lonely afternoons and embroidery practice. _He watched her practically leap to her feet after putting as much of her skirt’s contents into her basket as she could, and resolved to have a talk with his father that evening.

_ Turukáno has every right to raise her as he sees fit, but this _ can’t _ be healthy. We’ll stay out as late as we can, and I’ll take the blame if he’s angry, and I’ll make sure she has another day like this very, very soon. _

His _ hánoanel _was in the forest proper now, darting in between the trees and climbing on fallen logs. He stood up himself, and tucked his basket under one arm, and followed after her.

_ I’m glad I did this, _ he realized. _ I needed to have more in my life than endless fretting over my husband’s pain and misery. _And indeed, for once, as he entered into the shadow of the trees, Russandol was nowhere in his thoughts.

* * *

Maitimo had been expecting the knock on the door, but its sharp unnatural sound still made him flinch. Súlwë, the few times that he had visited, always knocked softly, and Findekáno did not bother to knock at all, so he was left nervous and trembling at a perfectly normal thing for what felt like the thousandth time. Still, he managed to compose himself and scrub the fear from his expression, or so he hoped. He had still not seen his face in a mirror, even now that the bandages had been taken from it almost entirely, and while he could feel it sitting differently over healed bones and renewed muscle, he had no idea what that difference _ looked _like, or how good his control had become.

The door did not open; he sighed and called “Come in,” wincing yet again at how harsh his voice had become. _ It will be a miracle if they know it is me, _he thought, but he knew Findekáno would sigh at him if such thoughts were known beyond the confines of his own head.

This time, the door did open, and Findaráto was behind it; he was wearing a pale green tunic that contrasted against his hair, and his blue eyes were soft and concerned. 

“Nelyafinwë?” he asked, peering around the edge of the door. “We came to - to see you…” 

His voice trailed off, and his already pale face grew paler. Maitimo could tell that he was making a valiant effort not to look as if he’d seen anything unusual, though it wasn’t a successful attempt.

“Come in, then, if you’re here to see me,” he said, and sat up and leaned back against the headboard of his bed. The bedclothes were gathered up to his hips, shielding the fact that he was clad only in one of Arakáno’s old shirts and several yards of bandages; he was suddenly, sharply, intensely self-conscious as his four cousins filed in. Súlwë and Itarillë and his husband had all dressed simply when he’d seen them, and Nolofinwë was dignified but subdued in his plain robes, but the Arafinwëans seemed to actively be making an effort to look _ good, _and that unnerved him. 

What he had thought was Findaráto’s pale green tunic was actually a long robe, folded and hitched up on itself to create the illusion of many layers of fabric between the world and his pale white undershirt, and it hung down in uneven cascades over his equally pale leggings. A brown belt studded with brass embellishments held it close about his waist, and there was a silver ring on the third finger of his right hand in addition to the gold band he already bore there in memory of his betrothed. Angaráto and Aikanáro were just as quietly ostentatious, wearing silver and sky-blue tunics cut in a matching but unfamiliar style that hung down to mid-thigh in front but had high cuts on the sides arching up to their hips and well-tailored cloth trousers underneath; they bore no jewelry, but Maitimo was certain the embroidery at the cuffs of their sleeves was real gold. Artanís was the last to enter, shutting the door behind her; she wore a thin, astonishingly white gown that clung to every one of her curves and trailed behind her as she walked. He supposed that she was quite an attractive _ nís, _all things considered, and she was definitely making an effort to show it - the neckline plunged low enough to be truly scandalous by Tirion standards, and the fabric was cut so closely that it almost seemed to be painted onto her. Together, the four of them were almost intimidating - their raiment was quite plain compared to what he was used to seeing, and yet compared to the rough simplicity of Findekáno and his family, the contrast was stark. 

He shrugged, and glanced at Findaráto again. For his part, Findaráto shrugged in return, and he and his siblings circled the bed, leaning on walls and windowsills and the corners of the mattress. No one spoke, instead glancing back and forth at one another. Maitimo was reminded that these were the family members he knew the least well - he had met all of them at one point or another in Valannor, but never spoken to them privately.

“You look well,” Findaráto said, trying to be chipper. To his credit, he seemed genuinely glad to see his cousin.

“Hah,” Maitimo answered, and then grimaced when Angaráto winced at the sound of his voice. “You look better.”

“The clothes?” Findaráto asked, and laughed a little nervously. “They’re gifts, from the king of the Sindar. He is kin to our grandfather Olwë, and when he heard we were here, he sent us a formal invitation to come to his court.” 

“We needed an excuse to wear them,” Angaráto added, “and to see if anything fit properly, but all of it did. It’s eerie, he’s never seen us.”

“I’ve heard rumors about their queen,” Aikanáro said. “She’s apparently some sort of witch.”

_ “I _ heard she was a Maia,” Artanís interjected. She was leaning on the windowsill, her white gown pooling around her while her hair hung loosely down her back. “Wedded to Elwë, and living with him as his wife.”

Maitimo shuddered, clinging to the bed and willing himself not to retch violently. The urge passed in a moment, but he was left feeling as if he’d been struck. 

“Are you all right?” Findaráto asked.

_ No, _ he thought, wanting to glare at his cousin, _ obviously not, _but instead he only said “Yes.”

The room fell silent again, eyes turning to the floor, or to the other _ eldar; _Maitimo looked down at the bedclothes covering his legs. Aikanáro cleared his throat awkwardly. 

“The weather is - ” he began, only for Maitimo to interrupt.

“Am I hideous?” he asked, before he could stop himself. As soon as the words had left his lips, he groaned; he had not _ meant _for the question to come out at all, but now it was too late.

“You’re - !” Aikanáro began, only for Findaráto to interrupt yet again.

“Nobody answer that.”

“And why not?” Artanís asked. “We aren’t going to lie to him.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“We don’t hate you,” Angaráto supplied, and his older brother groaned and sank his face into one hand. 

_ “Thank _ you, Angamaitë.”

“What?” the broad-shouldered _ nér _asked. “What did I do?”

“I wasn’t going to bring up the question of whether or not we hated him, for one thing.”

“Well, we _ don’t,” _Artanís said, “so why dither about rather than striking right to the point?”

“Because _ politeness dictates - _!”

“Hang politeness,” Aikanáro said, shoving his way into the conversation. He looked at Maitimo, who dodged his gaze and instead watched his hands. “You’re not hideous. You’ve got healing cuts all over your face, and a few bandages. I don’t _ know _what you look like.”

“That makes me feel better,” Maitimo answered sardonically. 

“Look at it this way,” Angaráto interjected, trying his best to sound friendly and gentle and instead sounding uncomfortably paternal. “At least we’re not trying to flatter you.”

“You’d gain nothing by flattering me,” Maitimo pointed out. 

“We wouldn’t gain anything by lying to you, either,” Findaráto said. He had evidently given up trying to corral his siblings. “So you can at least trust us to be honest.”

“That requires trusting you at all,” Maitimo answered, “and you’ll forgive me if I’m slow to do that.” 

“Hm,” Artanís said. “What exactly have we done to you, that you would react thusly?”

“Well,” Maitimo told her, his gaze skirting over the white fabric of her gown, “you’ve crowded into my room, and you’re staring at me like I’m some kind of fascinating oddity, and you’re trying to make conversation as if everything is completely normal and we are sitting in some courtyard in the Treelight in Tirion.”

“Of course we’re acting as if everything is completely normal,” she answered. “We aren’t in Tirion any longer, but that’s no excuse for us to completely abandon ourselves. We are still Noldor, after all.” She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing her chin up proudly. 

_ Ah, _ Maitimo thought, sighing and trying not to roll his eyes. _ So that’s how it is. _

“We are still Noldor, but more to the point, I at least am not trying to stare at you,” Findaráto said. He looked decidedly out of place amid the others, and Maitimo felt a sharp pang of sympathy for him. _ It is no small feat to get your siblings to behave, _ he mused, and suddenly all his will was bent on not thinking of what his own brothers would be doing across the lake. _ What were we talking about? Oh. Right. Whether or not I am ugly. _

“Findekáno insists I look the same as I ever did, I think,” he said aloud, “but I can feel my face twisting up in ways it didn’t before, and I’ve seen Súlwë and Itarillë flinch back from me.” 

“Súlwë?” Aikanáro asked.

“Findekáno’s valet,” Angaráto replied.

“Ah.”

“You’d think he’d be more polite than that,” Angaráto said, and then he and Aikanáro launched into a quiet debate over the qualifications of their cousin’s latest servant while Maitimo wondered if it was possible to will himself to the Halls out of nothing but the desire to escape this room. 

“Please,” he said finally. “I - I know you all meant well, but… ” 

“We’ve taken up enough of your time,” Findaráto said, shooting Maitimo what was probably meant to be a meaningful glance. “All right, you lot, clear out.”

“Fine,” Aikanáro said, shrugging and making his way toward the door. “It’s good to see you, Nelyafinwë.” 

“It’s good to see you as well,” Maitimo said, and he wondered if he meant it.

“I hope you continue to recover,” Angaráto told him, following after his brother.

“So do we all,” Findaráto said, inclining his head toward the door and the hall. Artanís slid off the windowsill, landing easily on her feet, and soon she and her eldest brother were the only visitors left in the room. She turned back to look at Maitimo, one hand holding the door open, and her eyes were sharp and observant and left him scrambling to find something to stare at. He settled on her fingers as she spoke.

“You’re less ugly than you think you are,” she said, “and uglier than you were before.” With that, she was gone, almost sliding into the hall and letting the door shut behind her. 

Findaráto sighed, almost crumpling in on himself. “May I stay here a while?” he asked.

“What?” Maitimo asked in return. “I - oh. I suppose so.” _ That’s not what I’d intended, but I can’t exactly _ stop _ you, can I? _

“Thank you,” his cousin said, and sank down onto the bed with a groan, falling back and staring up at the ceiling. He sighed again, expelling every last bit of air from his lungs. 

“So that was a disaster,” he said at last, and there was a hint of repressed laughter in his voice.

“It went well enough,” Maitimo answered. “At least, if it were _ my _brothers, I would consider that a success.” He wasn’t sure why he was more at ease with Findaráto now than he had been ten minutes ago, though he supposed witnessing his cousin’s embarrassment at his siblings’ conduct was probably reason enough. 

“Oh?” Findaráto asked. “Why’s that?”

“No arguments,” Maitimo said, “and no one was threatened with a stabbing, and I didn’t have to shut down five versions of the same argument between Tyelko and Curvo.” 

“I really don’t know your family very well,” his cousin said, “and it’s comments like that one that make me think it’s probably a good thing.”

“We have our moments,” Maitimo agreed. “But it’s not all misery and sniping back and forth.”

“Honestly?” Findaráto said, sitting up and looking at the other _ nér, _“I just wanted a little space from them. That’s why I stayed behind.”

“Space?”

“We’re - you wouldn’t know this, of course - we’re essentially inseparable,” he explained, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “It’s just the five of us - me, and my brothers, and Artanís, and Artaresto - and we’re more or less alone, all the time.” 

“How can you be alone, with all these people around you?” Maitimo asked, though as he spoke he realized the same was true of _ him. _

“We don’t really talk to anyone except our cousins,” Findaráto said, “and even they are - well, not _ us.” _

“Now _ that _ I understand too well,” Maitimo admitted, watching as the other _ nér _fiddled with his tunic and adjusted it. “My own family is much the same.”

“I know,” Findaráto told him. “Perhaps we aren’t so different after all.”

The thought was an unexpected source of comfort for Maitimo, who found himself completely unsure of what to do with the sudden bloom of warmth in his chest. 

“Perhaps we aren’t,” he agreed, gazing down at his left hand as Findaráto got back to his feet and stretched. 

“I should be getting back,” his cousin sighed. “But - but this was nice. Thank you.”

“I suppose it was nice,” Maitimo said, feeling what might have been a smile tug at his lips. He looked up from his lap as Findaráto moved around the bed, and opened the door, and then turned back to look at him in a perfect mirror of his youngest sister. 

“I ought to get to know you better, Nelyafinwë,” he said. “You’re a decent sort of _ elda.” _

Before Maitimo could answer, he was gone, and the latch on the door clicked shut behind him, leaving only silence in his wake.

* * *

Findekáno had no real notion of how long he and Itarillë had wandered through the woods. They had followed the trail of blossoms until they could fit no more into their baskets, and then his _ hánoanel _had caught sight of a bird with fine plumage that led them on a merry chase deeper into the trees, and then they had found a little stream with a pool deep enough for wading in, and had set their flowers down for a while so they might refresh themselves in the cold water. Now, he sat on a log, listening to the birds sing and watching as Itarillë soaked herself and overturned rocks and watched the occasional fish go swimming past where she stood. The Sun was slowly sinking in the sky, turning the light that came down through the trees from pale white to gold, and it cast a warm glow over his hands when he stretched them out in front of him. It had been the nearest thing to a perfect afternoon that he’d experienced on these hither shores, and he was sorry to see it go.

“We should go back,” he said aloud, and Itarillë groaned.

“Do we have to?”

“Yes,” Findekáno said, “unless you want to explain to your father why you were out until midnight.”

Itarillë made a face as she climbed up out of the pool. “No thank you,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

“I’ll be your eager escort, _ aranel-nînya,” _ he told her, offering his free arm once he’d picked up his basket. His _ hánoanel _giggled, much as she had when Súlwë had addressed her in a similar fashion, and took his arm as primly as she could. 

“I depend upon you to guide me home,” she told him, pitching her voice down to imitate Lalwendë and Írissë. 

“You couldn’t have picked a better _ elda _to put your faith in,” Findekáno said. “We’ll be home by sundown. No one knows these trees like me - no one else was lost in them for so long.”

He had meant to jest, and make Itarillë laugh, but he soon discovered that perhaps referring to himself as one who was long-lost was perhaps a poor choice. After only a few minutes, he realized two things: first, that he had no real familiarity with the part of the forest that they had wandered into, and second, that he had no idea how to get _ out. _

_ I don’t need to say anything yet, _ he thought, glancing around to see if something, _ anything, _ looked familiar. _ I just need to keep going, maybe follow the sunlight, and we’ll stumble out into - _

“You’re lost, aren’t you?” Itarillë asked him, shocking him into a stop in a dimly-lit clearing. The Sun had almost set completely, and the forest was growing darker by the moment.

_ “Muk,” _he swore quietly, and then realized that he’d done that in front of his brother’s daughter. “I - ah - don’t tell your father I said that in front of you.”

“It’s all right,” she said, laughing a little but sobering quickly. “Are we going to find our way out?” 

“Yes,” he said, genuinely confident. “Worst comes to worst, I’ll find a tree to climb, and I’ll be able to see our way out, and we’ll - !”

He was cut off abruptly by a low rumble of thunder, at once far-off and too close.

Itarillë pressed herself against his hip, clinging to her basket with her free arm, as he sighed. 

“That storm Artanís predicted,” he said, glancing overhead as the wind changed and the air turned cold. “It’s come early.”

“Are we going to die?” his _ hánoanel _asked him. Her voice was muffled by his shirt, and by her own fear. 

“No,” Findekáno said, sliding away from her so he could kneel down and face her properly. “No.” His hand went out to rest on her shoulder, and he looked her in the face, his eyes fixed on the bridge of her nose. “I promise you we aren’t. I lived through storms that were ten times what this could be. We will live, Itarillë, and we will get home safe. I promise - I _ swear _it, by all the stars.”

_ We just have to find a place to spend the night, _ he thought, forcing a gentle but determined look onto his face, _ and in the morning, it will all be well. _


	16. Were You A Friend

“I’m going out looking for them,” Turukáno said for the tenth time since sitting down. His eyes were fixed on the windows of Nolofinwë’s study, watching each raindrop that he could see as it trailed down the panes of glass.

“You are not,” Lalwendë replied from her seat on her brother’s desk. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s pouring rain, and it’s darker than Moringotto’s - !”

“Lal,” Nolofinwë interrupted quietly, but there was a hint of a warning in his voice.

_ You’re no fun, _she said to him silently, and felt a prickle of amusement in response.

“Well, it’s very dark,” she amended, “and you might get struck by lightning, or crushed by a felled tree, or trip and break your own foolish neck.”

“And my daughter could be out there, facing any of those things alone!” Turukáno shot back, rising to his feet.

“Sit down, Turvo,” Írissë said; she was curled up in an armchair woven out of reeds over a light frame and covered by heavy canvas, and her voice was exhausted. 

“Please,” Nolofinwë added, turning the page of his book. Turukáno groaned, and obeyed his father, sinking back into his own chair. 

“Can you send out guards to search for them?” he asked.

“In the morning, if it becomes evident that something happened.”

“What do you mean, ‘if it becomes - !’”

“Has it occurred to you that they might be fine, Turvo?” Írissë asked sharply. 

“If they were _ fine _ they’d be _ here,” _ her brother retorted bitterly. “If Findekáno thinks I will let him take my daughter anywhere again without a full escort, he’s _ very _ mistaken.”

“_ Turukáno,” _ Nolofinwë said, his voice creeping up in a subtle warning. His son opened his mouth to rebut him, and then thought better of it and grumbled to himself as he shifted in his chair. 

Lalwendë sighed, looking over the room and then turning her gaze to the window as if she could pierce the darkness with her vision. The four of them were sharing Nolofinwë’s study for the night, as the remainder of the great house was packed with _ eldar _waiting out the storm. The tents were waterproofed and sturdy enough, but they were drafty and dreary and unpleasant when it rained, and on nights like this when the wind howled and the dark felt as if it would creep into the bones of anyone who would let it, no one wanted to be alone. So the servants and their nobles lit candles, and torches, and stoked the kitchen fires, and fished out whatever fragments of stone lamp survived the Ice, and the whole encampment waited out the night together. 

Despite the close quarters, there was no merriment, and no conversation beyond the occasional hushed whisper. Lalwendë knew that if she opened the doors, she would find the halls lined with silent figures whose wide eyes were turned ever upward, watching for a calamity that, Eru willing, would never come. Their own rooms had been offered up to any who needed them - hers was occupied by two pairs of twins who had intermarried and were now practically inseparable, and Turukáno’s was taken up by three _ néri _whose faces she only vaguely knew, and her brother’s master suite had been given over to the cook and the kitchen staff - and despite knowing that it was the proper thing to do, she couldn’t help but wish she was listening to the storm from the comfort of her own bed.

_ Though I doubt any of us will be sleeping tonight, _ she added to herself, looking at Turukáno. Her _ hánoyon _looked as if he was going to tear himself out of his skin with his fingernails and nothing else. and every noise made him jump and flinch. 

“You’ve seen storms before,” Írissë commented rather acerbically as she pulled a cloak off of the floor and draped it over herself. “Be easy, would you?”

No sooner had she spoken than the whole world seemed to go white outside the window in a blinding flash of lightning, and almost before it had faded there was a crackling _ boom _of thunder that made the glass rattle in its panes and shook the whole house. 

_ “Muk,” _she muttered, and Nolofinwë didn’t bother to reprimand her for cursing as they all drew cloaks and blankets and shawls more tightly about their shoulders. Turukáno drew his knees up under his chin awkwardly, trying to hide himself beneath a pair of bedsheets.

Lalwendë was distantly aware that the room was quite warm, almost stifling even with all four of them and a roaring fire in the same tiny space, but the memory of cold had settled into her bones and seared itself into her skin, and the wind on the other side of the walls sounded just as hungry as the wind that had swept the Ice clean of all life.

“Ten to one a tree’s gone down,” she said, just to have something to say. “Probably a close one, too.” She was trying very hard not to think of Findekáno and Itarillë out there somewhere in the black mess of rain and mud, or of their _ hröar _crushed beneath the trunk of some felled oak. 

“We can make use of the wood, if it’s close,” Nolofinwë answered, turning another page in his book. 

“You’re awfully calm,” Turukáno said bitterly.

“Am I?” his father replied. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“How can you sit there like that when they might be - ?!”

“I will panic when the situation makes it clear that I ought to panic,” Nolofinwë interrupted him, still easy and unshakeable. “Until then, I will trust in your brother to have good sense, and you should too.”

“Hah. Good sense.” Turukáno spat. “He goes running off into the wilderness for weeks upon weeks for no reason, and you say he has good sense.”

“Oh, shut up, would you?” Írissë asked. “What did Finno ever do to you, anyway?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem.”

“Excuse me?”

“It doesn’t matter,” her brother answered, his voice a low rumble as he pulled the sheets more closely about his shoulders. “Never mind.”

She didn’t reply, and the four of them fell quiet once more, save for the occasional turned page of Nolofinwë’s book. Beyond the walls, the wind whined and howled, driving rain into everything it touched. Now and again the fire sputtered and spat. Lalwendë fidgeted on the desk, watching water run down the window. The silence crept up from the floorboards like frost, and the air seemed to turn colder still. The memory of ice lay thick over the room.

“I wonder if there are _ ausar _ here,” Írissë said, her voice shrill. It was as if she’d broken some unnamed spell.

“Don’t be morbid,” Turukáno replied. “And besides, _ ausar - _we’d know if they were here, wouldn’t we?”

“Would we?” Nolofinwë asked, and then chuckled when both his children looked at him with wide eyes. “I’m joking.”

“Of course you are,” Lalwendë told him, her voice shaking when another bright flash of lightning seemed to turn the whole world white. “And I’m going to make sure the window is sealed tightly. Just in case.”

She slid over to the far edge of the desk, moving onto her knees to check the caulking at the edges of the wood frame. 

“I hate storms,” she muttered to herself, echoing a sentiment she knew her brother and his children shared. The cold had settled into her core now, braiding itself through her with every breath, and even the feel of plaster and polish and glass seemed to fade before it. _ Surely this is all a dream, _ she thought, feeling a hazy dizziness seep into her mind, _ and I will wake and the air will be burning my lungs, or I’ll have to be pulled out of a drift of snow, or - _

A bright, steady voice sliced through the fog in her thoughts, pulling her back into herself like thread drawn through a tapestry. Her eyes widened, and she took a proper breath, and found her hands were shaking as they braced against wall and window. She blinked several times, watching her vision settle, and then turned to look at the closed door of the study. 

In the hall beyond it, someone was singing.

Lalwendë couldn’t place the voice, though she hadn’t heard every single _ elda _ in their encampment sing alone; whoever it was, they’d had at least a little proper training. Every note in their melody was soft and golden and warm, bringing with it thoughts of sunlight and summer, and when she let herself listen to it a dreamy vision of a new morning filled her mind’s eye. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her brother, and Turukáno, and Írissë; they were just as enraptured as she was. The cold seemed to drain out from the room, as if banished by the song, and she wondered if perhaps it _ was. _ The tune was new, or at least unfamiliar, and she could not pick out a word from the long phrases that seemed to run together and rebound upon themselves in the fashion of a _ tungaquerma’s _notes, but she clung to it nonetheless until it ended and slipped from her grasp, leaving behind the scent of flowers and sea-breeze.

“Oh,” Írissë sighed, slumping back into her chair. _ “Oh.” _

Unsteadily, Lalwendë got down off of the desk, sitting on the floor and pulling her shawl after her. 

“Whoever that was,” she said, “I want to thank them.”

“As do I,” Nolofinwë agreed. “Did anyone recognize that voice?”

“No,” Turukáno said, “but - !”

Now it was his turn to be interrupted by a song, though unlike the first, this tune was familiar, and was soon picked up by many other voices. It was a marching-song, composed on the Ice, low and forceful and furious. It spoke of spilled blood, and innocence lost, and defiance of the darkness and of those who spoke out against returning to the hither shores, and promised yet more bloodshed to any who would stand against their swords. 

It was a song of war, though whether it was war against Moringotto, against the darkness, or against the Fëanárions, Lalwendë could not say. All she knew for certain was that it sparked her blood to fight, and that the _ thud _of fist and boot against floor and wall seemed to beat in time with the pounding of her heart.

_ We are Noldor, _ she reminded herself as the final verse swelled and surged around her. _ When night falls, we defy it. _

* * *

The air was cold, and Findekáno wasn’t sure how it managed that trick when just hours earlier the Sun had been high and the breezes soft and warm. Regardless, he could not sing the rain away, or even build a fire, and so he and Itarillë had crawled into a shallow cave in the side of a hill and did their best to sleep away the hours of storms. Beneath them and above them was solid rock, and then the crest of the hill itself with the trees and bushes growing out of it; they were quite safe from anything except the thrice-cursed cold. 

_ And the way the rain seems to run sideways up into the mouth of the cave, _ he thought sourly, _ and the howling of the wind that sounds like one of those _ ausar _ that we’d meet on the Ice, and - _

_ If I keep this up, I’ll send myself into a fright, _ he thought ruefully, _ and Itarillë is already frightened. _ His _ hánoanel _ had at last managed to drift into a light, dozing dream, after he had curled about her and given her his arm for a pillow and hummed three or four verses of a comic ballad about a mischievous _ lopo _in between flashes of lightning and claps of thunder.

“It will all be over in the morning,” he had promised her as brightly and pleasantly as he could when they first got out of the rain. “And we’ll go home, and see the Sun shining on the raindrops that got caught in the grass.”

She had looked at him reproachfully, as if to say _ You’re lying to me, aren’t you, _but when another flash of lightning tore the sky apart she had clung to him regardless, burying her face in his shirt and shivering from the force of her repressed scream. He had wrapped his arms tightly about her until her heart had stopped tapping out a beat for a spirited dance, and then resolved to get them both to sleep as fast as possible.

His plan had worked, in part; now he only had to figure out a way to exhaust himself without waking her.

_ How did I go for all those weeks and weeks like this? _ he wondered. His journey north and back seemed many _ yéni _ ago, even as he knew it was eighty days past him at the most. _ Did I just go mad, and then regain my sanity upon my return? _

That seemed to be the most obvious answer, but deep down he knew he was fooling himself. _ I just went, and came back, because it had to be done. I slept when I was tired and I woke when I wasn’t, and I was too frantic to worry about things like rain or cold or storms except when the ice and the mud went running down the back of my neck, and now? _

_ Well, now I’m not alone, and I’m not nearly as terrified as I was, and somehow despite being less afraid I’m more awake. _

Outside, he could hear the rain falling, slamming into soil and leaf and branch. There was another flash of lightning, this one far brighter than before, and a sound like tearing and crashing. 

_ A tree’s fallen, _ he realized, suddenly remembering the hawthorn he had sheltered beneath in his first days away from camp. _ I hope - I hope it’s not one I knew. _

He was unlikely to get any real answer to that hope, but he let himself dwell on it as he listened to the storm and tried to rest.

* * *

Maitimo was awake, too enraptured by the scent of rain and the noise of wind and thunder to do anything but take it all in. There had been rain in Valannor, of course, but nothing like _ this; _he was used to gentle murmurs of water on roof and pavement, not something that seemed to tear the world apart. He had slept through the last storm, which had taken up the better part of a day that he spent drifting in and out of nightmares and trying to hide himself in his husband’s hair, and if there had been anything like this in the mountains he couldn’t remember it.

_ Is this what it will always be like, on these shores? _ he wondered, and he couldn’t deny the thrill that ran up his spine at the thought of yet more nights like this. _ Is this world wilder, and newer, and more raw, than the one I left behind? _

_ You’re becoming an academic, Maitimo, _ he chided himself, laughing softly. He wanted to get up from the bed and open the shutters that Aicatillë had closed when the rain began, though he had not yet been told such a thing was safe to do on his injured leg. _ And anyway, it sounds like the wind would like to tear through this place, and there’s no glass to keep it out. _

_ I hope Finno’s managed to keep dry like I have. _

The thought of his husband was sobering, but not upsetting; he could feel the other _ nér _ alive and unharmed at the end of their bond. It was too far for them to speak, and he had closed himself off enough that if he dreamed it would not bleed through the threads that tied them together, but at least he knew for certain that he had not been left alone. _ So I won’t worry, _ he decided, slicing off his budding fear piece by piece and calmly shoving it somewhere he couldn’t remember it. _ Not yet. Not until I have a reason to. _

There was a sound at the window of wood scraping on wood, and whining wind, and then with a _ bang _ the shutters flew open. At once the room was transformed - it had been dark, and close, and a little too warm, but now there was water pouring in sideways through the hole in the wall. Maitimo started upright, staring wide-eyed at the mess of black on black that he could see beyond the wall, and then he realized that his bed was quickly becoming soaked. 

_ “Á ercat,” _ he swore, moving without thinking. He shoved himself to the edge of the mattress, pushing off onto unsteady feet. “Damn straw stuffing for growing mold.” His legs were strange and shivering beneath him, and he almost fell forward onto his face, only catching himself by bracing against the windowsill with his forearms. _ “Ércamando, muk, cé morcor matuvalyë.” _Something twinged painfully in his hip. He ignored it, reaching out with his hand for the first shutter, which was pressed flat against the outer side of the wall. 

“Come here, you piece of - !” he muttered, only for the insult to die in his throat as the sky seemed to split apart into a river of white light that ran down from the clouds and poured into a low shrub that sat a few yards from where he stood. For a moment, the whole of it seemed to shine as bright as things he did his best to forget, and then it sparked into true flame with a deafening _ boom _that rattled the roof above his head. The fire endured, as if to spite the storm, consuming leaf and branch from the inside and burning in defiance of the rain that should have drowned it. 

The shutter was in his hand; he wasn’t sure how it had gotten there. Shaking himself out of whatever it was that had seized him, Maitimo drew it closed, and then reached out and soaked his shirt and his hair in the process of fetching its mate. But finally, he was back in the quiet of his room, and the latch was fastened once more, and he was dripping water onto the wooden floorboards. He could feel it running down his legs from the hem of his shirt, and he grimaced at the thought of trying to warm himself in a soaked bed once he got back into it. 

_ Wait. _

_ I - I’m standing up? _

He looked down at himself, watching the bones in his feet move as he shifted awkwardly in place, and then looked back up at the closed shutters. 

_ I’m standing up, _ he realized. _ I suppose that answers the question of whether or not I _ can, _ but as to whether or not I _should…

Before he could think too intently on this new development, his knees buckled under his own weight, and he staggered back wildly and slammed into the bed. Somehow, despite his pounding heart and shaking limbs, he managed to slide back beneath the sheets and blankets, curling up as best he could on the part of the mattress that hadn’t been completely drenched. 

_ I’m not exhausted, _ he realized, turning onto his side to look at the shutters again. _ I feel like I could stay awake for weeks. _

_ That settles things. I’m getting out of this bed for good tomorrow. I don’t care what I have to do, I can’t stay in it for another day. _

* * *

Findekáno had not known he’d fallen asleep until he woke up all at once, when a deafening clap of thunder had echoed through the trees, crackling and booming as it went. He wasn’t sure what he’d been dreaming about, if indeed he’d been dreaming at all, and he was instantly alert. Something was wrong, something had changed, and now every inch of him was unsure and searching. A quick glance around the back of the cave revealed it hadn’t opened up and was still the same hollow as before. The air was still the same blend of stifling and freezing, and each breath still filled his lungs with the same scent of wet earth and rock. 

_ We aren’t about to be pulled earthward and devoured by some dark beast, _ he thought, _ so why… ? _

He eased his head downward, pushing through the stiff muscles in his neck until he was looking more or less directly ahead of where he lay. What he saw made him freeze in place, his blood turning to ice and vitriol. 

They were not alone in the cave.

Opposite them, but closer to its mouth and crouching against the far wall, peering out into the storm, was a _ nér _in a heavy cloak. The hood was cast back from his shoulders, baring his head and revealing pale hair that hung over one shoulder in a thick braid; his face was fixed upward as if he could watch the sky through the clouds. He had one hand braced against the roof of the cave, and the other resting easily on its floor. On his other side, between him and the far wall, was an immense shape of dark fur. 

_ Who - ? _Findekáno thought, but then there was another flash of lightning and for a single brilliant moment he could plainly see the proud features on the other face. He was intensely focused on the storm, bright-eyed and fairer-skinned than Findekáno himself. The shape beside him was revealed to be a wolfhound that would have come up to his waist at least if it hadn’t been lying down with its head on its paws. 

If Findekáno’s heart had been cold before, now it was well and truly frozen.

_ Tyelkormo. _

The lightning was gone, and the cave was dark again, and he had no idea what to do next.

_ Maybe he hasn’t seen us, _ he thought. _ Maybe he just came here seeking shelter, and he doesn’t know. _

_ Don’t be stupid. Huan _ definitely _ knows you’re here, and what Huan knows, Tyelkormo knows. _

_ Not necessarily. He did help me all those weeks ago in the woods. He does go against his master, now and again, for reasons I can’t possibly guess. _

_ But can I count on him to do so if we’re both about to get murdered? _

_ You don’t even know he is plotting to murder you, _ he told himself. _ You’re being absurd. It’s storming horribly out there. You know at least one tree has gone down. Can he be blamed for seeking shelter? _

_ And can you really look at yourself, contemplate killing him first, and do it? _

That question gave Findekáno pause. He found himself thinking back to that morning under the tree and their first near-encounter, recalling the knife in his hand and the terror that had seized him. 

_ I can’t, _ he realized, sighing softly. The sound was swallowed up by the wind and rain. _ I couldn’t kill him before, and I certainly can’t do it now with Itarillë here, even if I had every hope of overpowering him. He’s done nothing to us so far, and said nothing - he hasn’t even _ looked _ at me once. _

_ I can’t justify attacking him over nothing. I am frightened, and lost, and on edge, and I am not thinking clearly. _Another glance out past the mouth of the cave revealed it was still treacherous and frenzied in the forest, and this seemed to anchor him and cement his resolve.

_ He was seeking shelter, and came upon us by chance. That is all, that is _ definitely _ all. Anything more and I will neither sleep nor leave him be. I don’t have to speak to him, I _ certainly _ don’t have to _ tell _ him anything. I am going to shut my eyes and go back to sleep. _

_ Assuming I _ can _ sleep. _

This was a problem he had not anticipated. Discovering his cousin had robbed him of any trace of fatigue. Even now, having resolved to do nothing at all, he was too aware of every sound and scent and sensation to dream of banishing thought in favor of rest. _ And with good reason, too - how can I be certain that he won’t slaughter the two of us as soon as I close my eyes? _

He watched the other _ nér _ warily from under half-closed eyelids, catching every shift and breath and scrape of boot on rock. Huan was dozing, or seemed to be dozing, and did not look at either his master or the other _ eldar; _this lent him some freedom to look without Tyelkormo demanding an explanation. 

_ Not that I would _ give _ him one, anyway. _

Findekáno wasn’t sure of how long he lay there, motionless and vigilant, but slowly he felt exhaustion creep back into his limbs. His breathing grew slower, and deeper, and he found it was a struggle to keep his eyes open. Each time he blinked it was harder and harder to focus on anything but how tired he was. He even fell asleep entirely before shock forced him to wake up a second time.

_ I can’t do this all night, _ he realized with a sinking feeling. _ I have to rest, at least a little, if I have any hope of getting us out of these woods in the morning. _Dismayed, he reviewed what few choices he had, and none of them save sleep seemed at all within his grasp.

_ I have no choice but to trust him, _ he decided. _ No choice at all. Even if I wanted to fight him, I couldn’t. Not like this. Not… _

He was asleep before he finished his thought, plunging down into black oblivion.

* * *

“Why aren’t you worried about him?”

“Hm?” Nolofinwë asked, glancing over his shoulder at Írimë. His children were asleep, at last having drifted off after two songs had turned into two dozen; he was not tired, but had been able to distract himself with his book.

“Findekáno,” his sister said. She had found another blanket and buried herself beneath it, her back pressed up against one leg of his desk. “Why aren’t you fretting like you did before?”

“Because,” he said, returning his attention to the volume of poetry in his lap, “I will know if I need to fret.”

“What do you mean?” 

A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “I mean that if something were to happen to Findekáno, I daresay those of us in this house would know almost immediately.”

“Well, that’s certainly cryptic,” Írimë said. “And it’s not what you said last time.”

“I didn’t have all the facts last time that I have now.”

“Hm,” she answered, shaking her head. “Fine, then. Keep your secrets.”

“Oh, I plan to,” he told her, and had to fight to keep the smile from spreading across his lips. “Though I strongly suspect these are ones you’re already privy to.”

He didn’t have to look at her to know her eyes had widened and her mouth had fallen open in surprise.

“Oh,” she said at last; he chuckled and turned to a new page.

“Oh indeed,” he replied. “As I said, I’ll worry about him if it becomes apparent that I need to, and not before. And I have every faith that we _ will _ know, and quickly, too.”

“You’re not wrong,” his sister admitted finally, fighting to keep a yawn out of her voice. “You’re not wrong at all.”

“Go to sleep, Lal,” he said in response. “I’ll keep watch until morning.”

She didn’t answer him, but the silence itself was proof that she had obeyed, and he wished her pleasant dreams as he kept reading. The storm had already begun to quiet, and morning would be bright and fresh, and life would carry on despite the night. 

_ There is some comfort in this endless cycle of light-dark-light-dark, _ he mused, directing his thoughts at his absent wife and feeling the vague echo of her presence in his mind. _ No matter what happens in the absence of the Sun, she always returns, bringing renewal with her. Night passes, and day comes again. _

_ I suppose there’s some sort of metaphor in that. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of war that the Nolofinwëans sing is essentially "Going Back" by Julia Ecklar, but tailored to the Silmarillion rather than to Elfquest.


	17. For My Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For new readers - Aegthel's name has been corrected to Aicatillë. In my own headcanon, his name is actually old Qenya, pre-Quenya/Sindarin split, but it sounds significantly more Sindarin than literally everything else. It's been completely corrected, so newcomers won't have this issue. Also, nirwë (plural nirwi) was a Quenya word deleted by Tolkien, probably because his elves don't scar naturally, but I'm using it here to signify Maedhros's scars, which are very new to everyone involved except Endanáro.

Findekáno awoke to the sounds of leather and fabric rustling against one another. He opened his eyes and immediately shut them again, finding himself half-blinded by sunlight streaming into the tiny cave at precisely the right angle to strike him in the face, and he had to crane his neck back at an almost painful angle to avoid making the same mistake twice. Opening his eyes a second time, he found the world impossibly bright and the storm long gone. The little cave was flooded with light, both from the Sun and from the still-soaked forest reflecting every bit of her radiance back and forth between the raindrops that covered the leaves and grasses. But he had no time to enjoy the improved weather, or even to be relieved - Tyelkormo was still beside him, crouching by the far wall; it was his cousin who had roused him from sleep with the sound of preparations to depart.

He put one arm around Itarillë, who remained asleep with her head resting on his shoulder, and watched the other _ nér _ silently. His mind drew close around him like a drawstring being pulled taut, so that even if Tyelkormo saw his face clearly and recognized what was in his eyes, he wouldn’t make the connection to Russandol. _ Even if my father hadn’t forbid it, _ he realized as his heart pounded in his ears, _ I wouldn’t tell Tyelkormo the truth of what’s happened. Not in a hundred _ yéni. _ He’d have gladly fought me back in Valannor, and he’d _ definitely _ fight me here. _

They looked at one another suddenly, with Tyelkormo’s light brown eyes snapping up to bore into his cousin; the expression on his face was calculating and intense. Findekáno began to move and sit up when the other _ nér _shook his head almost imperceptibly. 

“Go back to sleep,” he said, returning his attention to his pack. “I’m not going to kill you.”

Findekáno almost answered, but another sharp look from Tyelkormo silenced him. _ Maybe he’s being nice, _ he thought, settling back down on the floor of the cave and shutting his eyes. _ Maybe he was always this… unsettling. _

Huan was gone, probably hunting for some breakfast, and that made him uncomfortable. The dog, at least, liked him, and if Tyelkormo changed his mind, perhaps that fondness would save his life. But there was nothing to be done, unless he meant to properly confront the other _ nér _and rouse Itarillë while he did so. 

_ I have to go back to sleep, then, _ he mused, shutting his eyes yet again. _ Or pretend to, at least. There’s nothing for it. I can’t fight him with no weapons - even if he were barehanded he’d still best me, he fights like an animal. _

There was an anxious tremble in his limbs as he settled back down. He wondered if Itarillë could feel his heart pounding, or if Maitimo could tell that he was terrified nearly out of his mind, and then he shivered and shook his head just enough to force himself out of that thought. _ I will live to see him again, _ he thought, and then thought it again for good measure. _ I will, I will, I will. _

When he opened his eyes a third time, his cousin was gone, and the cave was empty save for himself and Itarillë. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in, and loosed his grip on his _ hánoanel _ and rolled over onto his back. _ We survived, _ he thought, and when he laughed it was brusque and nervous. _ I wasn’t stabbed to death. How fortunate I am. _

“What time is it?” Itarillë murmured, raising one hand to shield her face from the sunlight. Findekáno had accidentally deposited her in the path of a particularly bright beam, and she was forced to sit up. 

“I don’t know,” her _ atarháno _admitted, grinning a little, “but the storm is over! I’ll be able to climb a tree and spy out a way home.” 

The mention of tree-climbing made the _ wendë _smile, even if it was a faint and wavering thing. “What if you fall?”

“Fall? Me?”

“Yes, you. You always fall out of trees.”

“I do not,” Findekáno replied in mock affront, drawing himself up in a parody of an offended _ nér. _“I am an expert climber.”

His _ hánoanel _ was giggling at him now, and that lightened his heart a little. _ We won’t have anything to eat until we get back, _ he mused, _ and so I’d rather both of us be in good spirits. _

He got up to his feet, crouching to keep from bashing his head against the roof of the cave, and offered Itarillë his hand. She took it, smiling at him, and together they stepped out into the light of day.

* * *

When Súlwë came with breakfast, Maitimo was already awake, and sitting up in bed.

“I’d like to see Endanáro today, if possible,” he told the valet, taking his tray in a surprisingly steady grip. 

“Oh?”

“I think my leg has healed enough that I can try getting out of bed, at least for a while,” he explained, and inclined his head toward the shutters as both his arms were busy with food. “I had to get up last night to shut the window again, when the storm blew it open, and I was able to do it without any pain.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Súlwë said. “You’ll have to tell _ haryon-nînya _Findekáno, when he returns.”

“He still isn’t back yet?” Maitimo asked, frowning and glancing at the closed window as if he could will it open again. “But it’s been light for hours.” _ He’s alive - at least, I think he is, I feel him in our bond - so what’s keeping him? _

“It’s earlier than you think,” Súlwë said, “and _ Artaran _Nolofinwë isn’t worried yet, at any rate.”

“Should he be?” Maitimo asked. “I don’t know how easy it is to travel in this country under the Sun.”

“If _ haryon-nînya _isn’t back by sundown, yes, I’d say we ought to worry,” the valet replied. “Do you want me to open your window?”

“Yes,” Maitimo said, and as Súlwë crossed the room to unlatch the shutters and push them open, he found himself pondering the question of distance again. 

“How long was Findekáno gone, when he went to save me?” he asked.

“Three hundred and sixty-five days,” the valet replied, “if you assume a ‘day’ is one light-dark cycle rather than two of them. Doubtless you’ve noticed that they’re longer here.”

“I have,” Maitimo said. “I miss the old way of things. The nights here are darker than they were at home.” 

“They are,” Súlwë said regretfully. “There’s some debate among those of us who count as scholars - not me, but I do _ know _them - as to what we’re going to do about marking off time. This world seems to move in cycles of growing and dying off, and we will have to find a way to measure them sooner rather than later. Crops grow faster here, too - we planted less than sixteen weeks ago, and we’re already seeing sprouts.”

“What are we growing?” Maitimo asked.

Súlwë raised an eyebrow at _ ‘we’, _ but said nothing about it, instead replying with “I’m not sure. I think _ haryon-nînya _knows, though.”

“I’ll ask him, then,” Maitimo said. 

“You’re taking an interest in our agriculture?” The question was polite, and light, but Maitimo could sense the suspicion behind it. Súlwë was too aware of his position to say it aloud, but _ now that you’re going to be moving around more, do you mean to usurp our King? _was doubtless at the back of his mind. 

“I want to know what you’re doing, so that I might help,” he said earnestly. “I owe you - _ all _of you - an immeasurable debt.” 

His husband’s valet nodded, moving back to the other side of the bed and retrieving the now-empty tray of breakfast dishes. 

“If you truly wish to do something to repay us,” he said quietly, careful and respectful, “we could use some horses.”

“Horses?” 

Súlwë looked at him almost sharply. “All our livestock was aboard the swan-ships, _ condo-nînya,” _he said, and then his face slipped back into its easy pleasant expression. He straightened up, and almost smiled, and half-bowed at the waist. 

“If you don’t need anything more from me for the moment,” he said, “I’ll be going about the rest of my morning duties. And I’ll tell Endanáro that you want to see him.”

“That will be fine,” Maitimo agreed, only half paying attention. When Súlwë left the room, he turned to look out the window, watching the grass blow in the breeze off the lake. _ Horses, _ he thought. _ Well, I might be able to do something about that. _

* * *

Findekáno found a tree that suited him a little way outside the cave. It was a tall pine, and straight-limbed, reaching up above the broad oaks. 

“This will do,” he told Itarillë brightly, laying one palm on its trunk and sending a silent greeting through his thoughts. 

“Don’t fall,” his _ hánoanel _answered doubtfully, looking up toward the topmost branches. 

“You have far too little faith in me.”

“You fell out of trees all the time back home.”

“Ha,” Findekáno replied, finding a firm grip on a low branch and pushing himself up with both hands. His foot slipped out from beneath him, and he let out a string of very perturbed curses.

“See?” Itarillë asked, though she was laughing. 

“It’s these shoes,” Findekáno said, pointing at the flimsy leather guarding his bare feet. “It’s got nothing to do with _ me.” _

“Of course,” his _ hánoanel _ said, and she sounded far too conciliatory to be genuine. Findekáno resisted the temptation to stick his tongue out at her as if he were a _ seldo _ again and turned his full attention to the challenge of climbing the tree. Now that he knew his shoes had no grip to them, he could better brace his feet, and once he was off the ground he could carefully push himself from hold to hold. _ I only have to remember I can’t trust these _ ércala _ shoes, _ he thought, keeping most of his weight on his forearms and hands, _ and I should be all right. _

This climb was very different than the others he’d made in this forest - with no cloak to trip him up, and no pack to pull him backwards, it was remarkably easy to scale through the branches - and soon he was standing upright above the topmost boughs of the oaks and beeches. The whole of the land stretched out before him, just as it had when he sought the mountains, only this time he meant to go _ towards _the camp, and not away from it. 

“I see the lake!” he called, one hand raised to his face to shield his eyes from the Sun. He wasn’t sure if Itarillë could hear him, but he wanted to try to reassure her regardless. “And the camp on its shore!” It was more or less directly in front of him, and were he a bird or a Maia he could easily take flight and be within its bounds in a matter of minutes. But even from the ground, he knew the path to take, and he guessed they would be back at the great house before the evening meal. 

_ Now, _ he mused, looking down at his feet and at the network of branches, _ if only getting down were as easy as getting up. _ He crouched down, keeping his grip steady with both hands. _ It would be funny if I did what Itarillë keeps assuming I’ll do, but I have no desire to snap my neck while falling to my death. I have a feeling Russandol would never forgive me. So I will be careful, and then I will neither die nor trip. _

By some miracle, Findekáno’s certainty held true, and he made his way down out of the pine without slipping once. 

“There,” he said, grinning at Itarillë when at last he was on the ground again. “See? No falling.”

“No falling _ this _time,” she said, but she was laughing as she spoke. 

“I know the way home, I think,” Findekáno said, offering his hand. “It’s more or less a direct line from where we’re standing. We’ll be home in time for dinner.”

“And I’ll be home in time to get scolded by Atya,” Itarillë answered, wrapping her arm through his rather than taking the offered hand. She had her basket in the other arm, and Findekáno bent to retrieve his. 

“I won’t let him be too angry with you.”

“Good luck,” she answered, almost scoffing at him. “He’s angry at everything ever since Ammë.”

“He’s just grieving,” Findekáno said as they began to walk. “He’ll get better as time passes.”

“How do you know? _ You’ve _never lost a wife.”

“Well…” he began, and then frowned. “You’re right, I _ haven’t _ lost a wife.” _ I lost a husband, and then I dragged him back to the world of the living because I had no interest in letting him _ stay _ lost. _“But I did lose Alatya Finwë.” 

“Did that hurt?”

“It did. Very badly, at first. But it hurts less now. Just like I miss home less now.”

_ “I _don’t miss home less,” Itarillë informed him. “I had friends there.”

Findekáno winced. “I’ll help you make new friends,” he said. “Just see, soon you won’t be lonely anymore.”

“There aren’t any other _ hínar _my age,” she replied. “The closest is Artaresto.”

“Maybe you’ll meet some Sindarin _ hína,” _he tried. “You ought to be positive.”

“I don’t see why.” 

“Because things might get better. And you were so happy yesterday, what happened to that?”

“I was going _ away _ from home, not _ towards _it.”

Findekáno sighed, and looked down at her. “You can’t stand it there, can you?”

“I want to,” she admitted, “but I can’t _ do _ anything or _ go _anywhere, I have to stay inside all day and sit and practice my embroidery with Atya.” 

“I’ll have a talk with my father,” Findekáno told her. “He’s being unreasonable - Tur - your _ atar, _I mean.”

“You think so?” Itarillë asked, stopping to look at him. “You’ll really say that?”

“Of course I will,” he said. “It’s not right for him to keep you cooped up like a _ porocell _that’s too stupid to know when it’s about to be eaten.”

“Am I allowed to tell him you said that?”

“Absolutely not,” Findekáno replied, and they both laughed and resumed their walk. 

* * *

Endanáro was at least as old as Maitimo’s _ alatya _had been, and unlike Finwë he’d never lost the wildness that came with awakening in Cuiviénen. Still, his hands were steady, and his eye was keen, and he examined the sutures in his patient’s hip with the finesse of an old master. 

“You were right to call for me,” he said at last. “The progress here is - well, I will not say ‘remarkable’, as your entire recovery is remarkable - but it is notable, to have healed so quickly, and it is good.”

“Oh?” 

“You will not lose your leg,” he informed Maitimo calmly, “though you will have a deep _ nirwë _for the rest of your days in that joint, unless you lose your life and are reembodied.”

“I doubt I shall be granted that gift if I were to die,” Maitimo commented sardonically, and Endanáro gave him a look that made him a little nervous. “But,” he added, quickly changing the subject, “I’ll walk again?”

“It looks that way, at least for the moment,” the healer told him. “But I don’t want you leaping out of bed and traversing the lake.”

“I wouldn’t, even if my hip were fully healed,” Maitimo said with a shudder. “I don’t think I’m that strong yet.”

“Good,” Endanáro said. “Good. You’ve got more sense than _ haryon _Findekáno, if you’re taking that approach.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I told him to stay in bed, when he returned from the North with you, and he did not pay me any mind.” The healer’s lips twitched up into a half-smile that betrayed he was less annoyed than he let on. “He came to see you, when you were asleep.”

“He did?” Maitimo asked. It occurred to him that he knew very little of his rescue and recovery, and even the earliest weeks after he’d woken up were a blur of fear and confusion and then the warmth of Findekáno’s care.

“Yes, and you might as well have been dead,” Endanáro said wryly. “You were insensate and unresponsive to anything save bright light, which distressed you.”

“I’m not surprised,” Maitimo admitted, blinking back thoughts of Moringoþo’s throne room and then the dazzling light that he later learned was the Sun. “Light never meant a good thing in Angamando.”

The healer sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at him then, catching his gaze and holding it even as he tried to turn away; there was a fey and dangerous light in the eyes before him. Maitimo was dimly aware that he ought to be terrified, but something kept him from that terror, and instead he was becalmed and spellbound as Endanáro seemed to see right into the depths of his _ fëa. _Moringoþo had done this, and yet unlike Moringoþo the healer did not force, or pry, or tear. He merely observed, and when he found a locked door in his charge’s thoughts, he did not push past it. 

At last, Endanáro broke away, and Maitimo was left wondering if he ought to be frightened. He let his head drop down to his chest, and stared at his hand and his wrist and the way the bedclothes folded around his thin legs. _ What in the Halls was that? _he thought, but he did not have to wait for an answer for long.

“You will heal,” Endanáro said, and his voice was deep and booming and seemed to fill the room. Maitimo’s heart leapt up into his throat, and his blood turned to ice. _ Námo?! _ he thought wildly, clutching at the blanket with his left hand and drawing his right arm up protectively against his chest. _ No, Námo is far from here… _

“You will heal, and hold fast against our Enemy, and yet despite your noblest ambitions all will come to fire and blood,” the venerable _ elda _ continued. He was looking at Maitimo again, though he seemed to be seeing something else. The voice that came from his lips was his own, but _ more, _somehow. “You will gain much, and lose all, and live to see your Oath fulfilled.” 

Nausea had overtaken the ice in Maitimo’s veins. He had not thought of the Oath since his awakening, and he felt something shift within him when Endanáro spoke of it. And then whatever had happened was over, as quickly as it had begun, and the healer before him was once more his congenial self.

“What… what did you do?” he gasped, trying to catch his breath.

“I have some gift of foresight,” Endanáro said. “You have a high doom upon you, Fëanárion, and I could not help but catch sight of it when I sought to know if you would heal.”

“What - what did it mean?” Maitimo demanded. “Perhaps - if I know, I might turn the tide back on itself - ”

“I saw what has not yet come to pass, and what _ might _be,” the healer told him. “Even those things in our paths which are truly certain often have hopes and joys unlooked for within them, and no fate is absolute.”

“Mine very well might be,” he said darkly. “That damned Oath will hold me to it or else kill me.”

“Even it can be opposed, I think.”

“How?” Maitimo demanded. “Piety? Penitent pleading? I never _ asked _for it, why should I hold myself accountable to those it invoked?”

“Love,” Endanáro answered, and suddenly a thought of Findekáno came to Maitimo unbidden. 

“I - what?”

“Our world is crafted of it,” the healer said. “Every note in every true Song is built of love. It’s why we have families, and friends, and spouses, and siblings - even the _ kelvar _care for their young. We live in echos and variations of that theme. And nothing that we, or any Vala, or even Moringotto himself might do can escape that.”

“You sound like a philosopher,” Maitimo said. “What good can love do against _ that?” _

“You haven’t been troubled by it since you woke here, have you?” Endanáro asked, and Maitimo grimaced and fell silent. He had to admit that the other _ elda _had a point, albeit one he was reluctant to cede to. They sat in silence for a few minutes, and the sound of a particularly energetic bird drifted in from beyond the open window. The day was bright, and drenched in warmth, and peaceful.

“I know very little of what’s to come, Nelyafinwë Fëanárion,” Endanáro said at last, and Maitimo flinched at his _ essë, _“but I do know this: if any of us survive the coming storm, and if you and your brothers manage to rebuke your father’s legacy, it will be thanks to love.”

There was a weight and a purpose to his words; they felt just as true as his earlier foresight. And in their aftermath, Maitimo found that there was something rising up in his chest that he had not expected.

_ “Hantalyën,” _he said, scarcely believing he was thanking the healer for his gloomy speech. “I… I think you’ve given me hope.”

“Have I?” Endanáro asked, smiling more widely than before. “Good. You could use some hope.” He got to his feet and looked out the window, and then back to Maitimo. “Don’t get out of bed just yet,” he said. “I’ve had a few of my novices working with Isilórë and our craftsmen on a few things for you.”

“Things?” Maitimo asked. The sudden shift in conversation had jarred him.

“Yes - a brace for your shoulder, which we had to break again so it would heal in something resembling a functional fashion, and a chair woven of reeds that has a frame fixed to it for wheels.”

“Why would I need a chair with wheels on it?”

“To move from place to place, so that you don’t overtax yourself or rip out your stitches,” Endanáro explained. “I don’t think any harm will be done in letting you move about a room, or take a few steps from your seat when you’re outdoors, but you don’t need to be walking everywhere yet. This will help.”

“Hopefully I won’t need it forever.”

“Even if you did, it wouldn’t be awful,” the other _ elda _ said. “You keep thinking of yourself in terms of what you _ can’t _ do, _ condo-nînya, _and that won’t help you at all going forward.”

“That’s because it’s what I can’t do that has been limited.”

“If you say so,” Endanáro said, and then made his way toward the door. “Amdis will be along with your brace and the chair in a few minutes; I’ve summoned her. And then you’re free to do as you like. I doubt I shall need to see you again until your hip has healed enough that I can remove the sutures.”

“Just - _ what?” _Maitimo asked. All the breath had gone out from his lungs, though he couldn’t say why. “I - what?”

Endanáro had opened the door; Maitimo could see the hall beyond it, and the guard he’d come to know as Aicatillë standing to attention just outside.

“You’re _ free _ now, _ condo-nînya,” _he said, turning back to look at the room and at his patient. “You can do what you like.”

“Oh,” Maitimo replied, shivering. He thought he might weep, but no tears came; there was only determination. “Oh.”

Endanáro bowed slightly at his waist, and then left, leaving the door open. Maitimo couldn’t take his eyes off of it.

_ Free, _ he thought, still scarcely aware of what the word meant. _ Really free. _

_ What am I going to _ do _ with myself? _

* * *

Findekáno noticed very quickly that something was different about their walk home. The day before, their journey into the woods had been slow, and meandering, and now it seemed that there was a path unfolding before them. Twice now he had thought to go around a rise in the earth rather than over it, and had found the fastest way revealed by a broken branch or flattened leaves. Itarillë had spotted tufts of fur caught in brambles that almost looked like they’d been pulled away from the path, and once had nearly stepped in a pawprint as large as both her outstretched hands. _ It’s almost as if the way home was marked out for us, _ he thought as they clambered up over a jumble of rocks, and then recalled all the signs and shuddered. _ I think I know who did it, too. _

“How much longer?” Itarillë asked. She was thigh-deep in a shockingly cold stream, and had stopped to take a long drink. 

“I’m not sure,” Findekáno answered, cupping both his hands and scooping out some of the water for himself. He drank eagerly, trying to fill his stomach with every swallow, and his basket was tucked under one arm. “But this path we’re on is taking us straight home.”

“Did you come this way when you left? Is that why it’s so clear?”

“No,” he said; he shook his head and then wiped his hands on his shirt. “I don’t recognize this part of the forest at all. Perhaps it’s some sort of trail the _ kelvar _use.”

“Maybe,” Itarillë said. She looked as if she wanted to say more, but then her stomach growled and she glanced down at herself. 

Findekáno winced. “There isn’t any food left,” he admitted, “and if we stopped to search for lunch we might lose our way again. But!” He grinned. “When we get back I’ll sneak you a scone out of the kitchen. I’ll have one less tomorrow, but that’s all right.”

“Really?”

“Really.” 

They scrambled up out of the stream and onto the opposite bank, finding the path again all too easily. _ We really _ are _ being led home, _ Findekáno thought, _ or at least somewhere close to home. _ He’d worried at first that the path would veer off towards the Fëanárian camp, or else that it would twist back and forth on itself until they were even more lost, but instead it cut through the trees as neatly as a knife through butter. Somehow it made him nervous. _ Unless this is simply the woods being nice to me. There is always the chance of that. _

_ A very _ unlikely _ chance, but a chance nonetheless. _

Findekáno shook his head, silently scoffing at his own forced naivete.

_ You know who’s doing this, _ he told himself. _ Damn it all, what does he _ want _ from me? _

* * *

“I wasn’t sure what I ought to expect when Endanáro said you were bringing me a chair on wheels,” Maitimo said to Amdis, “but this is ingenious.” 

The apprentice healer was standing behind a low-backed seat woven out of reeds that anchored to a long piece of curved wood. On either side of the seat were large wooden wheels resembling those on farmers’ carts in Valannor, connected together by an axle that ran beneath the whole device. They rose high enough that he could rest his arms on them, or perhaps push them forward to propel himself. His legs would evidently stretch out in front of him, resting on the wooden base, which had a single wheel at its end to keep it level and balanced. At the back of the whole apparatus, the reeds extended to provide an anchor for a wooden rod that rested parallel to where he would evidently sit - a handle, or a push bar, that would let someone else wheel him around.

Maitimo had to admit that he was impressed, and evidently Amdis could see it in his face.

“We aren’t the craftsmen of House Fëanáro,” she said, and if she noticed his wince she didn’t seem to care, “but we do have some creative spark in us.”

_ Oh, lovely, _ Maitimo thought, _ now that I’m no longer bedridden I’m back in my family name. _He was being uncharitable, and he knew it, but he couldn’t help the bitterness that threatened to lash out at Amdis and her pride. 

“I…” he began, and then sighed and tried again. “I don’t particularly care about the honor and the glory of my House, Amdis. It doesn’t - I don’t _ care _ that were I anyone else in my family it would be a matter of course to attack your designs, or hold my own thought superior to yours. What matters to me is that this chair _ functions, _not who made it.”

“Oh,” she said, and paled, and then tried to laugh. “Was I that obvious?”

“Only a little,” he replied, shifting his legs over the edge of the bed. He looked down at his bare legs and paused. “Do I need trousers?”

“I’ll put a blanket on you,” Amdis volunteered. “There’s no reason to subject yourself to getting dressed if you don’t want to and don’t need to.”

“That suits me,” he said, and pushed himself up onto his feet with both forearms. He took a careful step, breathing heavily, but his muscles held him, and despite the fact that when he shrugged every bone in his upper body seemed to pop and crack he couldn’t deny that he already felt less annoyed. As promised, Amdis had brought him a brace for his shoulder, made of bone and leather and a few precious metal wires. It had been made to fit him exactly, fastening over the whole of his ruined joint and crossing his chest; he wondered if he'd worn it at all when he was unconscious. For now it was over his shirt, though he could tell it would be soft enough to wear against bare skin if need be.

_ “Oh, _you’re very tall,” Amdis said, and when he looked over his shoulder at her she gasped and covered her mouth with both her hands. 

“It’s all right,” Maitimo said, feeling his mouth twitch into something that might have been a smile and forgetting about the brace. “For once, that’s something that sounds familiar.”

“Still, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be so informal.”

“And you think I care about formality? I spent Eru knows how long living in a cell with my own shit.”

“Right,” the apprentice healer said, and then rallied herself admirably and got behind the wheeled chair. “I’ll hold it steady if you sit down. You should be able to manage it - Anarórë and Palanwendë both sat in it while holding sacks of grain, so it’s very sturdy.”

“I weigh as much as two _ níssi _and two sacks of grain?” Maitimo asked lightly.

“We - we didn’t know, I - !”

“I’m teasing you,” he said, coming alongside the chair and leaning into it with his left hand. “Whatever happened to the unflappable _ nís _who helped me use a bedpan?”

“You got better,” Amdis said quietly, and Maitimo sighed as he awkwardly climbed into the chair and sat down.

“I suppose everyone in the camp will expect me to be Nelyafinwë Fëanárion, presumptive heir to his father and claimant to the throne,” he muttered.

“Well… yes. Aren’t you going to be?”

“Amdis,” he said, “for now I only want to be Russandol Maitimo, and go outside and see the Sun from the earth and not while dangling from the side of a cliff. Anything else can wait.”

“Oh,” Amdis said, sounding a little brighter. “I think I can learn to like that rendition of you.” She pivoted the chair skillfully, using the bar; Maitimo lifted his arms clear of the spinning wheels.

“Hopefully everyone does,” he said. “Seeing as I don’t want to be anyone else for a good while.”

“Good, honestly,” she told him. “Between the two of us, I didn’t like your father very much, and I was hoping you wouldn’t turn into a taller, more attractive version of him.”

“Attractive?” Maitimo asked, almost incredulous. 

“What?” Amdis replied as they made their way through the door and past Aicatillë. “You’re not ugly.”

“Have you seen my face recently?”

“Yes. I was just looking at it. Now that you’re beginning to really _ heal - _ well, you’ll have those _ nirwi _that Endanáro was telling us about, but you don’t look bloody and frightful and half-dead anymore.” 

“Thank you,” Maitimo said, sarcastic but in a good humor as they wheeled their way down the hall. They passed several rooms that were much like his own, and some he couldn’t see into at all, and then stopped before a heavy door that was wider and taller than the others.

“We’re going into the house proper,” Amdis explained.

“How is it laid out?” Maitimo asked. “If I’m going to be moving about more, I’d like to avoid getting lost.”

“I doubt you _ could,” _ the apprentice healer said. “The house faces the lake, with two wings stretching away from the water at an angle. One is this, where you’ve been convalescing, and the other is on the other side of the main rooms, and it’s mostly for servants and attendants except for _ Artaran _Nolofinwë’s suite at the very end. The kitchens are at the back of those main rooms, facing towards the woods and the fields. There are some outbuildings and sheds and an herb garden in the yard between the two wings. That’s all.”

“What are the main rooms?”

“We’re about to go into the dining room,” Amdis said, “which is really the only one you’ll be needing at the moment. The _ Artaran _has a study, and then there are rooms for supplies and other work, but they’re more specialized. There’s talk of dividing and building beyond that, but for the moment it’s really just the dining room.”

“Is there a main door?” Maitimo asked. 

“Yes, that’s why we’re going in,” Amdis said. She pushed the latch down, and kicked the door in somewhat ungracefully, and then came around to the rear of the chair to push him through into the other room. “The front door of the house is the window to the dining room, and you can go down the steps right to the edge of the lake.” 

The room that they entered was wide, and narrow, with two other doors leading out of it that Maitimo could see. The walls were the same pale plaster as the rest of the house, and the floors and ceilings were dark wood. To their left was an immense window, taking up most of the wall. It, too, was framed in wood, with glass panes. Maitimo realized this was the first time since waking up in this house that he’d seen glass at all; he turned his full attention to the window. It was behind a long table with chairs lining both sides, and formed a sort of half-circle with thinner veins of wood threading through it. In its center the veins grew thicker to form a high arch, and below that what he thought was the frame extended down into the wall, though the glass did not follow it. There was an elegant latch holding it shut. Amds was right - the front door was in the center of the window, crafted of the same materials and cleverly blending in with the rest of the wall.

“It’s good craftsmanship,” he said, and he meant it. “And beautiful, too.”

“It faces westward,” she said. “When the Sun sets, it seems to set the lake ablaze with light. We wanted to catch that.”

“I hope I’ll see it,” Maitimo answered. “I bring my own chair with me now, it seems; I ought to be able to fit into their table.”

“They don’t often eat together anymore,” Amdis said, pushing him around the table in question and approaching the door. “They did at first, but after _ haryon _Findekáno left, they broke apart.”

“Oh,” Maitimo said, realizing again how disruptive and shocking his husband’s actions must have been. “That’s… I’d say I’m sorry, but…”

“You needn’t apologize to me,” she informed him. _ “I’m _not a noble, so I don’t particularly care.” She opened the door, and pulled it back, letting in the breeze from the lake. Maitimo shivered, smelling grass and some sweet flower he had no name for; he couldn’t tear his eyes from the water. 

_ If I wanted to, _ he thought, _ I could get up and walk there myself, out the door and down those steps and right up to the shore. I think this is the closest I’ve been to seeing the world and knowing it for what it is and being able to _ experience _ it in Eru knows how long. _

The enormity of this realization was almost too vast for him to comprehend all at once - _ free? Really? Truly? Am I quite certain I’m not dreaming? - _and he scarcely noticed when Amdis pushed him out of the door and onto the portico. The front of the house was understated but elegant, with wooden pillars painted the same white as the plaster and the walls that supported the facade of the house, and wide flat stones formed the porch proper and the stairs going down into the sand. Maitimo saw almost none of it; he was still staring at the waves coming up onto the shore

“Are you all right?” Amdis asked.

“What?” he said, startled; he realized he hadn’t spoken a word since the door opened. “Oh. I - yes.”

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, sighing a little. “It reminds me of the Sea, back home.”

“It does,” he admitted, “though I think I liked the Sea better.”

“Do you want to get down off the porch?”

“Yes, I think. I’d like to really feel the wind.”

“Then we’ll get you into it,” she said. “This might be awkward - I’ll have to lean you back onto the bigger wheels, and take you down the steps like a pushcart.” 

“Will that work?” Maitimo asked, eyeing the path away from the house nervously.

“It should,” she said. “And you’re fresh out of bed - are you game for a little adventure?”

“I suppose,” he replied, laughing quietly. “I’ll be having plenty of adventures soon enough - I might as well start now.”

“All right, then,” Amdis said, and pushed hard on the bar she’d been steering with, tilting him onto his back. His laughter grew louder, into a sharp bark; she joined him in his mirth and pushed him down the first of the steps. They were shallow, and wide, and it was easy enough for the wheels to move down the gentle incline despite how jarring the drop was. 

“I’m going to take the rest of them all at once,” she told him, “or else I’ll lose my nerve.”

“Do it,” he said, grinning. “I’m enjoying this.”

“Right!” she said brightly, and tilted him back up again, and almost ran down the rest of the steps. Moving faster made each drop at once more and less breathless, and by the time they came to rest in the sand they were both laughing heartily. 

“We need a ramp,” Amdis said, letting go of the chair. “I’m not doing that again, and I can’t imagine going _ up _ those stairs.”

“How am I getting back in the house, then?” 

“We’ll take you through the kitchen entrance, I think. Or you could walk, if you feel up to it.”

“Hah,” Maitimo answered. “Up stairs? I doubt it.” He lifted his arms to the wheels, and tested whether or not he could brace the stump of his wrist against the wooden rim. 

“What is it?” Amdis said. 

“I’d like to get closer to the water,” he told her, “and really feel the air.”

“I understand,” she said. “I’ll take you right down to the shore.”

She straightened up, returning to her post, and pushed him across the flat sands until he was sitting in the middle of the gently lapping waves, watching them come up around the chair. He looked up and saw the water stretching out before him, and the Sun in the sky overhead, and far off the birds diving and dipping beneath the surface to catch fish. Something in him unspooled all at once, a great weight lifting from his shoulders, and suddenly there were tears in his eyes. 

“I…” he began, and then shivered and blinked back his tears before continuing, “I’d like to be alone for a while, I think.”

“I understand,” Amdis said, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing it. “I’ll come back for you in half an hour or so.”

“Thank you,” he replied, not looking at her. He didn’t notice when she left, transfixed by the scene before him.

* * *

When Findekáno first saw the little earthenware bowl, he scarcely thought anything of it. It was exactly the sort of thing he’d expect to find in the woods at home - a small gesture in honor of Oromë, set to the side of a path and filled with cream and honey - and if anything, it seemed to be a sign that they were drawing near to the edge of the woods. 

And then he remembered that this was not Valannor, and none of the huntsmen in his father’s service were in the habit of leaving offerings.

His knees almost buckled from under him. 

_ He knows about me, _ he thought wildly, frantically. _ He was always the least predictable, the least content with the uneasy truce between us cousins - what if he’s plotting to kill me? _

_ What if he knows I stole his pack? _

_ I’m being ridiculous, _ he thought sternly, realizing Itarillë was staring at him. _ Absurd. If he has led us to their side of the lake, I can easily return to _ ours _ by following the shore. And - _

“Look, up ahead!” his _ hánoanel _said excitedly, pointing. “I can see the end of the trees!”

_ And he has led us to exactly where we entered the forest, _Findekáno realized as they stepped out of the woods at last. He could see the meadow before him, dipping down to meet the lake, and the tents and fields of his father’s host.

“I’ll race you to the lake,” Itarillë said, tugging on his hand. “Please?”

_ Tyelkormo, though, _ Findekáno thought, glancing back at the woods. _ I only - _

_ \- oh, damn it all. I _ am _ being absurd. That offering was almost certainly a sign that he means well. And it’s not as if he could fail to recognize me, or as if we’re hiding where we live. There really isn’t anything _ stopping _ any of them from coming over here and killing us. We’re all just hoping they _won’t.

_ Well, it’s not as if I have another choice, is it? I’m even _ supposed _ to forgive them, if my father is to be believed. _

Findekáno sighed, and looked back at the trees one final time. _ All right, Tyelkormo, _ he decided. _ I’m going to trust you. _

_ Whatever that brings. _

He smiled at Itarillë, almost too brightly.

“Winner gets to push the loser in,” he said, and took off running for the water as fast as he could.

“Hey!” Itarillë cried, and then sprinted after him. “Not fair!”

“You never asked me to play fair!” he shouted back, watching the ells get devoured by his legs as they tore across the grass. 

She answered him, but he couldn’t hear her, focused on the shore and the great house and someone who looked as if they’d taken a chair from the dining room to sit on the sand. _ I wonder who it is, _he thought, and then shrugged it off. Itarillë was gaining on him, and he had every intention of tossing her into the water when he won.

* * *

Maitimo looked up when he heard the footsteps, turning to watch as someone in a white shirt and dark pants raced down from beside the great house to the shore. It was a _ nér, _shorter than he would be when he was standing up, but now towering over him. His bond leaped and surged and sparked, and he realized suddenly that he was looking at Findekáno, carrying a basket under one arm and now breathing heavily. 

“Finno?” he asked, and his husband’s head snapped up to make eye contact. 

“What - ?” he asked, mouth falling open; he let his basket drop to the sand. “You -!”

But he had no time to speak, because another _ elda _slammed into him at full force, knocking him face-first into the lake. Maitimo gasped, trying to get up from his seat, and then realized it was Itarillë, who was clinging to Findekáno’s back.

“I got you!” she crowed triumphantly, letting go of him at last. “You won but I got you!”

“You did,” Findekáno admitted, pushing himself up out of the water and grinning at both the _ wendë _and his husband. “We were racing,” he explained, gesturing at Itarillë, who was gathering flowers up from where they’d fallen and putting them back in her basket. He looked as if he could barely believe his eyes.

“Hello, Finno,” Maitimo said, and his smile felt as if it would split his face in two, his healing wounds twisting up to allow for the movement. “I’m out of bed now.”

“You are,” Findekáno answered, and his eyes were dark and sparking and lovely. Their bond surged around them, carrying thought and desire back and forth. 

_ Oh, I could kiss you, _his husband thought, and Maitimo smirked. 

_ Get me someplace quiet, _ he replied, _ and you could do more than that. _

The smile that crept across Findekáno’s lips in answer to him was bright enough to light the stars.


	18. I'm Glad You're With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was rather long in coming - life absolutely destroyed me - but! We have A Chapter!

Findekáno watched as his husband shifted in his wheeled chair, as if considering whether or not he planned to get up. He could feel the warmth between them, catching glimpses of Russandol’s desire to cross the distance between them and sweep him up into an embrace and a deep kiss and more,  _ more -  _

\- he blushed deeply, eyes wide, the smile on his face faltering for just a moment.  _ Russo,  _ he thought, glancing at Itarillë behind him,  _ we’re not alone.  _

_ So?  _ the other  _ nér  _ answered, smirking.  _ She can’t hear these thoughts.  _

“Itarillë?!” a familiar voice called, and Findekáno flinched. 

_ No,  _ he admitted,  _ but  _ he  _ might be able to.  _

Itarillë straightened herself up, carrying both baskets of flowers now. She was walking out of the lake when Turukáno came flying out of the house, running down the slope toward her.

“Are you all right?” he cried, sinking to his knees and taking her shoulders in his hands. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Atya,” she said, and her head shifted for a moment as if she was trying to look back at Findekáno and beg for help. “I’m not even scratched. See?” She offered up her arms with their baskets.

“What happened?!” he demanded, declining to answer her in favor of focusing on his brother as he got back to his feet. 

“We went looking for these flowers,” Findekáno said, pointing at the baskets, “and then the weather turned foul and the Sun set and rather than risk coming back in the storm and getting struck by lightning or breaking our necks or getting flattened by trees, we took shelter in the forest for the night. The next day, we came back.” He gestured to himself and his  _ hánoanel.  _ “See? Here we are.”

“What were you doing in the forest in the first place?” Turukáno asked. He towered over both the other  _ eldar,  _ and even over Russandol in his chair. 

“Having fun,” Findekáno snapped. He was annoyed, and forgetting to control it. “You know, that thing you’ve forgotten how to do.”

Turukáno paled, his mouth falling open, but finally he glared at his older brother and seized Itarillë by the hand. 

“Atya will want you for dinner,” he muttered, and turned on his heel and stalked back toward the house, almost dragging his daughter behind him. She shot Findekáno a worried look over her shoulder, half-tripping up the steps into the dining room. The door slammed shut behind them, the sound echoing over the lake.

“Damn,” Findekáno muttered, running a hand through his wet hair. “I’m in for it now.”

“What’s his problem, anyway?” Russandol asked. 

“He’s my younger brother. Does he  _ need  _ to have a problem beyond that?”

“Fair point,” Russandol answered, laughing, “but he’s not usually like this.”

“He is now,” the other  _ nér  _ said, shaking his head and sitting down in the sand beside his husband. The lake came up around his feet. “Ever since Elenwë died.”

“Died?” Russandol asked, alarmed. 

“You didn’t know?”

“How could I? The only people I’ve seen so far have been you, and Endanáro and Amdis, and Itarillë, and Súlwë, and Aicatillë, and your father. And I guess Turukáno now, though I don’t think he noticed me.” 

“I mean - I didn’t  _ tell  _ you?”

“There’s a lot you haven’t told me.”

“Like what?”

“Like what happened on the mountain, for one thing.”

Findekáno fell silent very quickly, shamed and embarrassed by the mention of his supposedly great deed.  _ And here I thought I was done telling this story.  _ Muk.  _ I guess it can’t be helped.  _

“You really don’t remember?” he asked, looking back up at Russandol.

“No,” his husband answered, “but I don’t think you ought to tell me now.”

“I have to clean up and then go to dinner, so no, now  _ wouldn’t  _ be the time.”

“Oh, go to dinner like that,” Russandol said. He was smirking. “You look fine.”

“I’m soaked. My shirt is practically transparent.”

_ You say that like it’s a bad thing.  _

Findekáno was blushing almost before his husband had finished answering him. They were staring at each other, heat sparking up and down their bond as the Sun drew nearer to the horizon and seemed set the water on fire.

_ You - you’re -  _ ! 

_ Yes?  _ Russandol asked, raising an eyebrow almost invitingly. There was a sudden, painful pressure at Findekáno’s hips. Even now, despite everything, the  _ nér  _ before him was still the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. 

_ I,  _ he tried again, mouth dry and heart pounding,  _ I want -  _ !

“Oh, good, you’re back!”

Findekáno closed his eyes, his whole  _ hröa  _ shuddering violently.  _ Damn it,  _ he thought, recognizing Súlwë’s voice. He forced himself to take a deep breath, trying not to laugh despite his annoyance.  _ This isn’t his fault,  _ he thought,  _ this isn’t his fault. _

“Hello, Súlwë,” he said, pushing his face into something resembling a smile and looking over his shoulder at his valet. His voice was strained and high-pitched, and both his hands were digging into his thighs. Russandol made a sound somewhere between a cough and a strangled wheeze, both laughing and trying to stifle it at the same time. 

“You ought to come inside,  _ haryon-nînya,”  _ Súlwë answered. “We can dry your hair and get you into something resembling dinner dress.”

“I’ve been properly summoned, then?” 

“You have. No one will admit it, but they were all worried about you last night.”

“I’d better come along, then.” Findekáno got to his feet, brushing sand off of his trousers and giving Russandol an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

“He can come too, if he likes,” Súlwë said. “I’m assuming he can go where he pleases, after all.”

“He can,” Findekáno said. “Of course, it depends on whether or not he’d like to see my bedroom.”

“Hah,” Russandol answered airily, but there was a glint of mirth in his eye nonetheless. “Unfortunately, I think I’m stuck here until Mistress Amdis returns to take me back to my room.”

“I  _ can  _ tell Amdis you’ve come with us,” Súlwë offered. “She’s not your guard, after all.”

“Oh,” Russandol said, and it was clear that he hadn’t considered this. “I… yes, I would like that.”

“Then I’ll push you,” the valet offered, “and  _ haryon  _ Findekáno can walk beside you, and we can go into the house again through the kitchens so you needn’t worry about the stairs.”

“The kitchens?” Findekáno asked. 

“It’s either that or I take him to that big window in your room, and he crawls through to the other side and we worry about the chair later.”

“I’d be up for trying it if I didn’t think Endanáro would have my head for such a thing,” Russandol said. “The kitchens will be fine. Besides, I’ll get to thank some of the  _ eldar  _ who’ve been kind enough to feed me.”

For a moment, Findekáno considered making a witty retort, but one look at his husband made him realize that Russandol was completely serious.  _ He’s changed,  _ he thought, and the knowledge chilled him.  _ Not that thanking people is bad, but - what  _ happened  _ to him, that simply feeding him is kindness? Will he ever tell me? _

_ Will he ever  _ heal? 

But there wasn’t time for such questions. Súlwë had come up to Russandol’s chair, and was attempting to turn it away from the lake without much success. Every movement he made only made the thing sink deeper into the sand, until there were three tiny trenches that the wheels fitted snugly into. 

“Whoever designed this clearly meant for it to be used indoors,” he muttered, and then blushed when he realized Findekáno was looking at him. “Oh. I’m sorry,  _ haryon-nînya.”  _

“Don’t be,” Russandol said. “I’m intrigued by the principles behind its shape, but you’re right, it really doesn’t do well here.” He slid his legs out to either side of the front of the chair until his feet were flat on the sand, braced his arms against its sides, and began to ease himself upward on his hand and forearm. 

“Russo, wait - !” Findekáno cried, only to get waved off by his husband.

“I  _ can  _ do this myself,” he said, grimacing as he got up. “It’s only awkward because I can’t push off like I would on a bed. I have to sort of climb out.” For a moment, it looked as if he would slip or lose his grip and be sent back into the chair, but then all of a sudden it was over and he was standing upright, straddling the very front of the whole device. A blanket fell from his lap onto the ground; he was wearing a large, loose-fitting shirt that covered him enough to be decent but that left him bare-legged and obviously underdressed. For a moment, Findekáno thought he would fall, but despite a persistent tremble in his legs he held fast. He was utterly silent, and whatever expression he wore was obscured by his hair, which was long enough now to fall to his shoulders.

“Russo?” Findekáno asked. “Are you - ?”

Warmth, and shock, and grief slammed into him, surging through their bond until the edges of his sight were sparking with the weight of it all. He glanced at his husband’s stature, his squared shoulders, the way his hand closed and opened on air, how his feet were braced against the sand, the ragged rise and fall of his breath - 

\-  _ he’s overwhelmed,  _ he realized, tears pricking at his eyes.  _ This is the first time he’s stood on his own two feet in the free air in Valar know how long. _

“Come here,” he said, stepping closer to Russandol and taking a trembling left arm in both of his. The taller  _ nér  _ shuddered and then sagged against him with a sigh, awkwardly pivoting one leg over the chair as Súlwë pulled it free and began to push it up the beach. It moved easily now with no one in it, no longer miring itself in the sand. For his part, Findekáno was well able to support both himself and his husband, and they stood and watched the Sun and the water for as long as they dared. 

_ We have to move,  _ he thought at last, prodding at Russandol with his own mind.  _ We’re in full view of the house, and you’re leaning on me like my father does with my mother.  _

_ Oh,  _ Russandol answered, shivering again.  _ I suppose we ought to.  _

_ More than ‘ought to,’  _ Findekáno said.  _ We’ll get to my room and I’ll find a reason for Súlwë to get out for long enough to kiss you.  _

_ If you say so,  _ his husband said, and the warmth of a smile bled through their conversation.  _ I suppose I’ll have to settle for the view from your window, and not the lake that frames you in sparks of light.  _

_ You’re obsessed with me,  _ he answered, jesting and light, and turned carefully around with Russandol leaning heavily on his shoulder. 

_ Can you blame me? You’re breathtaking.  _

Findekáno glanced up at the other  _ nér  _ with a sharply confused expression.  _ Me?  _ he asked as they began to slowly follow Súlwë and the chair. Rather than go up the sand and directly back to the house through the main door, they were walking up a sharply sloping bluff that turned to grass very quickly, to avoid the stairs.

_ Yes, you,  _ Russandol said,  _ what about it? _

_ I’m  _ not  _ the most attractive  _ elda  _ in the family,  _ Findekáno replied.  _ Not even among my siblings. That’s easily Turvo, or Arakáno. _

_ Turukáno looks like he swallowed a sour fruit almost all the time,  _ Russandol said, his steps awkward and careful but steady all the same.  _ And Arakáno is a bit too shy and retiring for my taste.  _

_ And I am not?  _ Findekáno retorted lightly. Mention of Arakáno had shaken him, but he pushed those thoughts aside.  _ I will tell him later,  _ he resolved privately. He’d gotten far better at keeping some things to himself, though it took active effort.  _ I’ll tell him everything. But I’ve barely seen him, it feels like, except to care for him, and I want to treasure this.  _

_ You’re Astaldo, remember?  _ Russandol said in answer to his question, jerking him back to the present and the -  _ flirting? Are we  _ flirting,  _ finally?  _

_ Do you  _ want  _ it to be flirting?  _

His husband’s answer was unexpected, and warm, and  _ alive  _ in ways their previous exchange hadn’t been. Something sparked in their bond, and heat rose and fell with Findekáno’s breath, pooling in his hips until his trousers were uncomfortably tight. 

_ You weren’t supposed to hear that,  _ he said, turning his head to look at the other  _ nér.  _ Russandol’s face was still bandaged in a few places, but it was beginning to resemble itself again, and his eyes were alight with mirth and amusement.

_ Well, I did,  _ he told Findekáno, raising an eyebrow.  _ And now you have to deal with the consequences, don’t you? _

Findekáno let out a faint sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan, only realizing at the last second that they weren’t alone and Súlwë might have heard it. He was only vaguely aware of the existence of his valet, though - the whole world seemed to be crafted of Russandol. Their bond cracked and sizzled like a piece of meat in a pan, and suddenly the both of them were gasping and yearning. There was tight pressure at hips that might have belonged to anyone, and every inch of their  _ hröar  _ ached and burned at once, and everywhere,  _ everywhere,  _ the all-consuming heat, surging and blazing, demanding to be answered - 

“Are you all right?” Súlwë asked. They snapped apart from one another, feeling rather like the valet had upended a bucket of water on both of their heads. Findekáno fought the urge to laugh as he watched his husband blush and pale and blush again in rapid succession.

“We’re fine,” he said, losing control just long enough to chuckle when Russandol’s face twisted on itself into a frustrated grimace. “I think Russo ought to sit down again.”

_ Traitor,  _ his husband said as Súlwë drew closer with the chair. They were on grass again, and the ground sloped up along the sides of the house for an easy path to the back door and the kitchens. 

_ Tease,  _ Findekáno answered in kind, and smiled as sweetly as he could when Russandol shot him a heated look.

“That is a lot of walking to do at once,” Súlwë said. Findekáno couldn’t help but note that he was very pointedly staring at the ground, and that his voice was almost artificially level. He was too giddy to be concerned, instead having to fight back yet more laughter. 

Russandol sank back into his seat, not once looking away from his husband; his expression was a mask of calm, but his eyes were molten silver.

“Are you very tired?” Súlwë asked. He was clearly, painfully polite.

“I - no,” Russandol replied, leaning into the back of his seat with a soft sigh. “My heart is pounding, but I’ll be all right.”

“You ought to sit still, then,” the valet said. “Rest, and you’ll recover. Walking can be strenuous, after all.” He resumed pushing the chair, making his way up around the wing of the great house.

_ Is that a joke?  _ Findekáno wondered as he walked beside the other  _ eldar  _ silently.  _ If I didn’t know him better, I’d say he was making some sort of joke at my expense. _

_ He’s your valet,  _ Russandol answered, somehow conveying the same artificial levity in his tone.  _ He’s not brave enough to make fun of you. _

_ I’m not going to dignify that with a response,  _ Findekáno answered, and Russandol’s only reply was yet another rush of heat that made him blush and stagger as he walked for a few steps. 

They made their way around the wing of the great house, occasionally glancing at one another and at Súlwë’s very purposeful deference. 

_ He’s really doing his best not to realize anything, isn’t he?  _ Maitimo asked. 

_ He is,  _ Findekáno said, _ and it would be funny if it weren’t so serious.  _

_ Oh, it’s funny anyway. That  _ is  _ the fastest way to avoid knowing who’s married to whom.  _

_ He’s lucky,  _ Findekáno replied.  _ He can stare at the ground and it’s respectful, but  _ I  _ get noticed if I don’t make eye contact with every  _ elda  _ in the room.  _

_ Take after me in this, then,  _ Russandol said.  _ Don’t make eye contact with anyone but your closest friends. I already look at the faces of those who speak to me rather than staring into their eyes, and I imagine that’s how I’ve managed to avoid being found out.  _

_ You’ve also been alone,  _ Findekáno said.  _ Somehow, when we’re together, everything resembling subtlety gets tossed overboard like Telerin bait for their nets. _

_ We’ll have to work on that,  _ Russandol said as they rounded the corner of the last room on the wing and came to face the kitchen yard.  _ In time, once you’re not expected at dinner in an hour or so.  _

The space between the two wings of the house was wide and mostly bare earth, with a number of open-air fires and a clay oven taking up a good deal of the space. There were a few outbuildings at its edges, including the quickly-built armory that Findekáno had considered borrowing from when he plotted his journey north, and a small herb garden by the opposite wing of the house. A few  _ eldar  _ were gathered around the oven, busily sliding loaves of bread in and out as they baked, and Findekáno noticed a guard sitting on a stool by the armory, idly watching everyone passing by. Falmalótë, the formidable  _ nís  _ who had declared herself head cook when it became clear no one else had any intention of taking the position, was on her knees in the middle of a patch of small green plants, and she looked up when the three  _ néri  _ entered the yard.

“Please don’t get up,” Findekáno said, watching her wipe her hands on her apron and fixing his eyes on her forehead when she looked directly at him. “We’re just using the kitchen door to avoid too many steps.” He gestured toward Russandol and the wheeled chair. 

“Go on,” Falmalótë said, inclining her head toward the house. “Don’t bother my cooks, but you’ll be able to get back into the front room from the kitchens.”

“Thank you,” Findekáno said, and smiled at her. He was suddenly aware that everyone in the yard was looking at him, and at Russandol.

_ What do I do?  _ he asked silently, grasping at the bond linking him to his husband.  _ They’re staring at us. _

_ They’re staring at  _ me,  _ love,  _ Russandol answered.  _ Let them.  _

_ My father would make a speech, or… something, I think. Maybe. _

_ You don’t need to make a speech to a handful of people in a kitchen yard. Not unless you want to. _

Findekáno nodded, and then realized he was nodding in response to  _ nothing  _ in the eyes of all the watchers, and bit down on the inside of his cheek to avoid making a pained face. 

“Thank you,” he said again, this time pitching his voice up to carry around the yard. He was looking at no one specifically, but he could feel when the focus shifted from Russandol to him. He swallowed hard and continued, hoping his voice didn’t falter.

“I just - I want to tell you that your work is invaluable,” he said. “You keep the lot of us from starving, and without that we’d be skin and bone and nothing more. There is no encampment without you. Not truly. And I must - I have to offer my endless gratitude for everything you’ve done for me  _ personally,  _ and my dear friend Russandol.”

Maitimo made a noise that was probably a laugh but that managed to shift into a particularly ugly-sounding cough. 

_ Shut up,  _ Findekáno said,  _ I’m trying to be a diplomat.  _

_ Dear friend?!  _ his husband retorted. He ignored it.

“Without everything you do,” he said to the other  _ eldar,  _ pointedly not looking back at the  _ nér  _ in the wheeled seat, “I don’t know if he would have lived. I don’t know if  _ I  _ would have lived. I - I can’t thank you enough. All of you.” He glanced around the yard, avoiding eyes but looking at everyone nonetheless. “Your labor is seen, and known, and valued, and the office of the High King is nothing without it.” He smiled, and half-bowed at the waist in a gesture of deference to an equal, and then strode past the astonished  _ eldar  _ and into the kitchen. Súlwë followed behind him, pushing Russandol; they entered the house more or less at the same time. 

Indoors, all work had stopped, and every eye was fixed on the three of them. Findekáno wanted to wince and shrink inside himself and dodge their attention, but he knew he’d drawn it upon himself, and so he squared his shoulders and smiled at all who he could see, looking at hair and brow and nose. The smile was genuine, even with his unease and fear at its core - these were  _ eldar  _ who carried his family, and whose names he had known even since his childhood. 

_ I meant what I said,  _ he thought, both to himself and to Russandol.  _ Without them, we wouldn’t be alive.  _

_ I know,  _ his husband said as they walked past tables and stoves and yet another oven.  _ You did well.  _

The air was hot, and humid, and thick with the smell of dinner soon to be served, and so it was a relief to go out the main door and into the dining room. No one was there, but the table was set already, with six chairs on one side and five on the other. Findekáno stopped in his tracks, staring at it.

“What is it?” Súlwë asked.

“Yes, do explain, as I can’t see the meaning,” Russandol added.

“He means for you to join us for dinner,” Findekáno said.

“What?” his husband cried. “No. No, I’m not doing that.”

“There are twelve places here, and only eleven of us.” He pointed to the end of the table. “This last plate - there’s no chair. Evidently that’s  _ you,  _ in your current state.”

“No,” Russandol said, and when Findekáno turned to look at him he was even paler than before and shaking his head emphatically. “No, I’m not doing this.”

“Why not?”

“Why subject myself to the gauntlet of family misery when I’ve been mercifully spared it?”

“Oh, be realistic, Russo. It  _ can’t  _ be that bad.”

His husband looked at him sharply, his eyes pale and uneasy. Findekáno remembered suddenly that dinner for the heart of House Fëanáro was, by all accounts, rather like a war that happened to be regularly scheduled. 

_ We’re not like that,  _ he thought,  _ but… _

He recalled Turukáno’s sullen bitterness, and Írissë’s solitude, and how his  _ atarnésa  _ found excuse after excuse to spend the evening meal somewhere else, and his attempt at a warm smile turned sour. 

“At least appear long enough for everyone to see you’re not in any danger of dying,” he said, “and then you can claim to be quite dizzy and I’ll find a way to get you back to your room, or mine.”

“Must I?”

“For my father’s sake, and mine, if nothing else,” Findekáno said. “Please.”  _ He’s been nothing but kind to you, and I think this is his way of welcoming you into the family properly, and celebrating your recovery.  _ And  _ he’ll keep Turvo in line.  _

_ Are you sure it’s not some kind of attempt to prove that  _ he  _ is High King and  _ I  _ am nothing but a miserable would-be usurper?  _ Russandol asked, shifting his gaze away from Findekáno to the table.  _ Or a power play? Or a rhetorical trap? _

_ I am,  _ Findekáno replied.  _ I’m  _ quite  _ sure of that. And if it  _ is  _ any of those things, I’ll defend you, consequences be damned.  _ Indignant, protective heat surged back and forth between their bond, and Russandol looked back up at him, eyes wide and almost astonished.

_ You… you  _ mean  _ that. _

_ Of course I do. You’re my husband. And my father might be my King but that doesn’t mean I can’t come to your defense. I  _ love  _ you, and part of loving you and wedding you is  _ protecting  _ you. Even from my own blood, if need be.  _

Russandol frowned, and looked back at the table, finally sighing and shaking his head.

“Your family is very odd,” he said aloud, and glanced back at the door that he and Amdis had come through an hour or so before. 

Perhaps guessing his intent, Súlwë easily turned the chair, pushing it across the wooden floor until they stood before the door. Findekáno caught up with them in three long strides, sliding in front of them to push the latch down and pull the heavy piece of wood back; his valet and his husband proceeded through and he followed behind. 

“How are we odd?” he asked, glancing at the closed doors that lined the hall. Aicatillë was sitting at his post, as usual, and he half-bowed when the three  _ eldar  _ passed him.

“You’re odd because… well, you treat family like it’s something except a chain to bind you to your House.”

“You’ll find,  _ heru-nînya,  _ that  _ most  _ families treat blood ties like something other than a chain,” Súlwë answered, and then glanced apologetically at Findekáno. 

“Hm,” Russandol replied, and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m only baffled.”

“Baffled? And here I thought you were an aspiring philosopher,” Findekáno jested, a soft smile growing at the reminder of his husband’s youthful declarations. They were made when the Trees were alight and the biggest obstacle they could conceive of was Fëanáro’s disapproval, and when Russandol dreamed of being an academic and not a warlord. 

“Philosophy is  _ hard,”  _ Russandol retorted, smiling back at him. “Being baffled is expected now and again.”

“That sounds like something a particularly unintelligent philosopher would say.”

“And  _ that  _ sounds like the complaint of a prince who wishes he were more able to remember his proofs of existence.”

Findekáno made an exaggeratedly horrified face as they reached the end of the hall and his room. “You are a horrible  _ nér,  _ to remind me of those damned things!”

“You asked for it,” Russandol said, laughing as his husband opened the door and the three of them filed into Findekáno’s room. It was larger than the others were, by virtue of his status and his choice, and there was space for the wheeled seat between the bed and the low sofa that faced the fireplace.

“I did  _ not,”  _ Findekáno said, sitting on the bed himself. He was grinning again. “I simply said that any  _ true  _ scholar wouldn’t complain about how strange and unusual something as fundamental as family is.” 

“So you’re calling me an idiot.”

“If the boot fits.”

“Dinner is in an hour, I think,  _ haryon-nînya,”  _ Súlwë interrupted again. He was standing by the door, holding it open. “Will you need help to dress?”

“No,” Findekáno answered, “thank you. I won’t be late.”

“In that case, I think I’ll go in search of something for  _ condo-nînya  _ Nelyafinwë to wear,” the  _ nér  _ said. “Since he’ll be at least briefly appearing at dinner.”

“Yes, please do that,” Findekáno said. “Otherwise he’ll be a scandal all to himself.”

Súlwë half-bowed at the waist and left, shutting the door. Once he was gone, Findekáno wasted no time peeling off his still-damp shirt and trousers, kicking off the bizarre Telerin shoes and letting them fall forgotten in a corner. 

“Finally,” he said, standing up and stretching. “I’m not dripping lake water behind me anymore.” He turned his attention to his closet, going over what other clothes he had that might be turned into something resembling dinner dress. “Should I wear all black, do you think, or ought I try blue for a tunic? I think that they managed to get the stains out of the one I wore on my way to fetch you - ”

He had taken a few steps around the bed, easing around Russandol where he sat, and was heading for his closet, only to be stopped in his tracks by the warm pressure of skin against his right wrist. 

“What?” he asked, turning around, and when he saw his husband his mouth went dry and the warmth that had smoldered between them blazed to new life. 

Russandol was standing up again, the seat seemingly forgotten again. His right arm was extended, brushing against Findekáno’s wrist, and his eyes were burning with a thousand things neither of them could name. Their bond sparked and shifted, heat pooling in chest and throat and hip; neither of them spoke. 

Findekáno took a step closer, his eyes wide; the whole world was going soft. Russandol’s left hand reached out, almost hesitantly, and ran over forearm, and chest, and neck, as if he barely believed he wasn’t dreaming - 

\- their lips met somehow,  _ hröar  _ shifting and bending and arching to allow it, and neither of them were quite sure who it was that cried out in relief and desire and joy, but they were both weeping before the sound had faded. An arm with no hand was cradling Findekáno, pressing him close against cloth and leather, and his own fingers were tracing the ridges of bone in back and shoulder, and they kissed, and kissed again, until they were breathless and gasping for air. 

_ At last,  _ one of them thought, and it was echoed back and forth between them, singing down the length of their bond.  _ At last.  _

Findekáno groaned as he pressed closer to the other  _ nér -  _ his legs were sliding apart, and he was almost riding his husband’s thigh, and he felt himself grow hard and aching in an instant. As if in answer to his need, Russandol’s hand slid between them, finding his cock and taking hold of it. His knees nearly buckled beneath him, and he was only kept upright by his husband’s right arm. 

His own hands ran down the shirt that kept them apart, skimming waist and thigh and finally making their way to pale hips. He could feel Russandol even through the fabric, hot and hard and heavy in his hands, and the first touch of skin to skin made the other  _ nér  _ stagger backward and fall onto the bed. Findekáno followed, climbing on top of him, kissing him again and again as their hands slid up and down and drew them both nearer to some bright peak they could  _ feel  _ burning within them. Time slid to a standstill, the whole of creation shrinking until it was made up solely of  _ them.  _ His eyes shut, and his tongue was in Russandol’s mouth, or Russandol’s was in  _ his,  _ and he had two hands, three, one, more,  _ more -  _

The knock on the door shocked them both, tearing them apart until they were each in their own  _ hröa  _ again. 

_ “Ércala muk,”  _ Findekáno groaned. “Súlwë.”

“I found something for  _ condo-nînya  _ Nelyafinwë,” the valet said from the other side of the door. “I’m coming in.”

“Half a minute!” Findekáno cried, scrambling back off the bed and dashing for his closet. “I haven’t got any pants on.” 

“You’ve got four pairs of them, and one is soaked through,” his valet said, opening the door just as he ducked into the little alcove that kept his clothes. “Does it really take you that long to decide?”

_ “Yes,”  _ he answered, voice shaking and unsteady as he looked over the room. Russandol had pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking stunned and more than a little ravished, but he’d managed to pull his shirt back down and cover himself. 

“You’re too picky,  _ haryon-nînya,”  _ Súlwë replied, shutting the door again. He had several piles of folded cloth in his other arm. 

“Picky?” Findekáno asked, seizing the first pair of pants he could find and practically leaping into them. “What makes you say that?”

“The fact that you spent ten minutes trying to decide between three options, perhaps,” his valet said, and turned to Russandol on the bed. “I wasn’t able to find much,  _ condo-nînya,  _ and so I’m sorry, but there  _ is  _ a robe, and a pair of trousers.”

“That’s more than I could have guessed you’d find, considering my height,” Russandol answered. There was a hitch in his voice as he spoke, and he kept shifting position to avoid looking at Findekáno, who was stripped to the waist and trying to work out the knots in his hair as he undid his single braid. 

“Thankfully,  _ haryoni-nînya  _ Turukáno and Arakáno are near enough to you in stature that I managed,” Súlwë answered, glancing shrewdly from his lord to the bed and then back again before he dropped his gaze with exaggerated respect. “Can you dress yourself, or do you need my help?”

“Oh, wait!” Findekáno cried, turning around and going back into his closet. “Don’t - Russo, you won’t fit into Turvo’s trousers, I promise. Wear these.” He picked up the folded pair of leather trousers that still nominally belonged to his husband and tossed them across the room. Súlwë caught them out of the air and raised an eyebrow.

“These? Aren’t they yours?”

“They, ah - they were very much too big for me,” Findekáno said, completely serious.

“That’s probably why you tried to stitch them tighter around your legs.”

“You  _ what?”  _ Russandol asked, evidently having recognized his own pants. “Finno - !”

“I couldn’t tell you how I ended up with them,” Findekáno interrupted, his casual, breezy air obviously forced. “But they were very useful  _ crossing the Ice.”  _

Russandol fell silent; his expression seemed to indicate he had guessed what happened.

“They’re brown,” Súlwë said, “and the robe is blue and silver, which would look better with the black, but - you’re right, if they fit him, they fit him.” He nodded, and set both the robe and the trousers down at the end of the bed. “I’ll take these back to Turukáno,” he said. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes or so, to help with your hair,  _ haryon-nînya.”  _

“My hair?” 

“You’ll want to rebraid it, won’t you?”

“I - oh.” Findekáno sighed, his face shifting into a pained grimace. “I suppose I will.”  _ And Russandol won’t be the one doing it.  _

This time, they couldn’t help but share a look, and when it became evident that they weren’t going to stop staring at one another, Súlwë sighed loudly and backed toward the door.

“I’ll be back,” he said, and was gone before either of the other  _ néri  _ could say anything.

At last, Findekáno sighed, and crawled back onto the bed, curling up beside his husband.

“I don’t want Súlwë to do my hair,” he murmured, resting his head on Russandol’s arm.

“Neither do I.”

“I suppose it can’t be helped.”

“Probably not.”

They fell silent, clinging to their bond and the solitude of the room, and then Russandol spoke again.

“Did you really wear my pants across the Ice?”

“What choice did I have?” Findekáno asked, laughing. “We weren’t given many options.” He shifted, turning onto his side to look at his husband. “The more pressing question is this - what did  _ you  _ do?”

“What?”

“With my leggings! They couldn’t have fit you.”

“They were very short,” Russandol answered, which made Findekáno burst out into true laughter. “Thank the Valar it was so dark.”

“What  _ happened  _ to them?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. I’d imagine they’re back with the rest of my things, with my brothers.”

“Hopefully none of them bothered to raid your closet while you were gone,” Findekáno said. “Or else they thought that you were trying a new style of underwear.”

“Some underwear,” Russandol retorted. “I’d have to cut a hole in them.”

“Touch my leggings and I’ll gut you,” Findekáno told him, voice light, smiling at his husband with what felt like enough warmth to reignite the Trees. They kissed again, and again, and finally broke apart, this time too wary of the time and of Súlwë to lose themselves.

“You should get up,” Russandol said.  _ “We  _ should get up.”

“Right,” Findekáno sighed, kissing him again and then rolling off the bed and back onto his feet. He padded over to the closet, and searched through what shirts and tunics he had. 

“I won’t need help, by the way,” his husband added. “In dressing.”

“Good,” he replied. “White or green? No, the green is too nice. I’ll go with the raw linen.” 

“How wonderful for you, to have a choice,” Russandol teased. 

“How wonderful for  _ you,  _ to be told exactly what to wear.” Findekáno slid the shirt over his head, tugging it down around his waist. “There. Stockings next, and then boots, and I’ll be halfway decent.” 

“You’re worrying an awful lot about this dinner, love.”

“It’s the first time you’ll be seeing my family properly? Of course I’m worried.”

_ “Ai, muk,  _ you’re right, aren’t you? This  _ is  _ the first time I’ve truly shared a meal with you all.”

Findekáno froze, feeling the blood drain from his face. 

“What is it?” Russandol asked. 

“Don’t say that again.”

“What?”

“Don’t remind me that you’re about to have your  _ first-ever dinner  _ with  _ my whole family,  _ when we’re already married and haven’t bothered to tell a soul?” 

_ “Á ercat,”  _ Russandol groaned. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“We’re not  _ going  _ to think of it that way,” Findekáno said. “Not again. Two people  _ do  _ know - ” 

“What?  _ Finno - !”  _

“My  _ atarnésa  _ Lalwendë knows - she guessed it. I didn’t say a word to her. And Írissë knows, because I told her before all this started - before I even set out to find you.”

“Have they - ?”

“They’ve not said a word, Russo. To anyone.”

Russandol groaned, and sank back against the pillows in Findekáno’s bed. “I don’t want to get up. Do I have to?”

“Sadly,” Findekáno said, and then remembered what he had put off saying before, and sighed again.

“What is it?” Russandol asked. 

“It’s… there’s something I have to tell you,” he said, moving back to sit on the end of the bed. He faced the shuttered window - it was easier, somehow, to tell it without looking his husband in the eye.

“What is it?”

Another breath, another sigh, as long as he could push it, and then he shook his head almost disbelievingly and answered. 

“Arakáno is dead.”

_ “What?!” _

“He died just before we reached these shores.”

For a long time, Russandol didn’t answer, and then he muttered a curse under his breath. 

“The Ice?”

“No. Those… those  _ things  _ that Moringotto uses for soldiers. The orcs. He - he died slaying their captain.”

“You - you fought orcs?”

“Just before we arrived here.”

“Vána’s tits,” Russandol swore, and Findekáno let out a sharp bark of surprised laughter. 

“Maybe you oughtn’t blaspheme the Valar after they let me save you.”

“Maybe I’ll do what I like. Orcs are vile.”

“They are,” Findekáno agreed. 

“Was that the only major loss?”

“No. Elenwë drowned.”

“Elenwë meaning Turukáno’s  _ wife?”  _

“Yes,” Findekáno said, turning to look at his stricken husband. “And that  _ was  _ on the Ice.”

“No wonder he’s so protective of Itarillë.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure this dinner is a good idea?”

“Not really,” he admitted, “but what choice do we have? We can’t hide forever. We have to move forward. With our lives, our marriage - everything. Oh, damn it, we’re wasting time again. Get up and get dressed. I have to find a comb.”

“There’s a brush on this side of the bed, on a table.”

“The one covered with dust?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a reason it’s covered with dust.”

“Ah,” Russandol said, moving back to the edge of the bed. He slid into his trousers remarkably easily, and pulled the blue and silver robe over his shirt. “Finno?”

“Yes?” 

“I don’t want to live my life in hiding forever either,” he said, looking at his hand and his forearm. “But - well, you said it best. What choice do I have?”

“This choice,” Findekáno said, sliding across the bed and putting his arms about his husband. HIs head rested on Russandol’s shoulder, and he pressed soft kisses to the other  _ nér’s  _ jaw. “The choice to love me, and stand by my side, and - and  _ face  _ the future. Not run from it.” He tightened his embrace in a brief squeeze. “You can  _ do  _ this, Russo.”

His husband didn’t answer him, but reached up and took one hand, returning the squeeze.

_ I love you,  _ he said.  _ Whatever the cost.  _

_ Whatever the cost,  _ Findekáno answered.  _ So long as the world endures.  _

Russandol nodded, ignoring the sob building between the two of them.

_ So long as the world endures,  _ he agreed.  _ Let’s go forth and greet what comes. _


End file.
